


Though not in heat-I'm hot for you

by sherlocked221



Series: Though Not In Heat-I'm Hot for You [1]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alpha John, Alpha Ringo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Knotting, M/M, Mutually Unrequited, POV George, POV John, POV Paul, POV Ringo, References to Knotting, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-11 10:25:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlocked221/pseuds/sherlocked221
Summary: John and Ringo are Alphas. Paul is John's omega. No one knows that George is also an Omega, but he wishes he could be with Ringo.He looks on at the happy relationship between John and Paul in jealousy...but all is not perfect on their side either.ORThe one in which George fancies his buddy Ringo while John struggles to tell Paul about his self-consciousness when it comes to his body and neither one can properly deal with it.





	1. George

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what year this would be set in... Mistakes will be made, sorry.

Looking over at John and Paul, they bloody look happy. I smile, I grin and stand in the background, a fourth head to a rock and roll monster. Next to them, I look happy too. I do a bloody good job of it. It takes work, though, when everyday you’re having to hide something from your other three heads. It wouldn’t be so bad had it just been me, John and Paul, they’re too interested in each other to take much notice of little old me, standing in the back or the middle, sharing a microphone because I don’t usually sing, spending my time on my own because I’m ‘the quiet one.’ But that Ringo. If it weren’t for him, it wouldn’t be so hard.

Ringo is… overly nice. I love him, don’t get me wrong. It’s impossible not to like him. That cheeky smile of his, huge striking blue eyes, lips that could be made for kissing you until you’re smiling. You see, that’s my problem! I like Ringo too much. After years of being in the band, managing to hide the fact that I’m an Omega with such ease it’s laughable, now I’m stuck in a predicament between a very attractive, unmated Alpha and his two mated friends.

It started in those grotty hotel room bedrooms when Eppy couldn’t get us a big enough room. In the kind of places we had to stay at, there wasn’t a room big enough in the entire place. We were shoved into several that had two single beds for four teenage boys, you tell me how that’s meant to work. I top and tailed with Ringo because John and Paul had long been for each other. They had to, even when they fought, sleep in the same bed. John would force Paul into his bed if ever he tried to sleep elsewhere. I used to look on in jealousy. I want an Alpha to be all possessive-like on me.

I never minded much that Ringo snored like a hippo with sleep apnea, because he was a considerate sleeper, not ending up all which ways like John did. How Paul managed waking up to John strewn diagonal, his arms and legs all in places they had no right to be, is beyond me. Ringo was also a cuddler, even when John yelled out that we were queer. In those days, he neglected to mention that his preference could swing both ways.

And in those tiny, unventilated rooms, I found myself falling for Ringo’s charms. The way he’d hug me, or light two cigarettes, one for me, the other for him, even when I didn’t ask for one, or when he’d make me smile, just by singing a song to me and changing all the words. He used to make the songs about me. He never was a serious writer, but a genius at writing comedy gold. He always used his slightly lacking vocal talents to make the ditties even funnier. I actually love his voice, though. Not matter what anyone says, the songs he does sing are so perfectly tailored to him that no one could pull off such tunes or lyrics.

I couldn’t imagine Ringo being anything other than sweet and kind. But I liked to try to think about what kind of Alpha he was. Overly possessive like John? Aggressive and domineering? Subtle perhaps?

Then, one night, it seemed I need no longer wonder about him. Lying in our bed in some hotel whose name has long escaped my mind, I was asleep, a groovy, dreamless sleep that blocked out all the world from it, when I was awoken with a jab to my ribs. My eyes shot open to take in the sight of the dark room, low moon light streaming in from the slit between the curtains of the window above John’s bed, and there, backlit by the pale illumination, Ringo was jerking about. I worried about him, so I was about to wake him up, when I realised the soft noises he was making. His movements were not the sporadic flinches associated with nightmares. He was arching, thrusting. I could imagine a chick on his lap, riding him. That was, when I was not imagining myself in that position. Wondering what to do, I was frozen in confusion, equally as turned on by it as I was surprised. I ended up watching, watching every miniscule movement, every small sound. He breathed a name once or twice, not one I’d heard before. I felt momentarily jealous until I snapped out of it. I was not in love with Ringo.

Well, I was.

Especially seeing Ringo on his rut. That was what this was. He was having a dirty dream, a possessive, aggressive dream about a beautiful young Omega with her mouth around him, and the next day was out omega hunting to satisfy that internal itch.

An itch I’d dream about satisfying myself. Though I told myself that I wasn’t gay, that I probably would never tell the boys about my being an Omega, I couldn’t help but think about that moment and be totally taken with the idea of Ringo and I, mated. Then I’d have Ringo, John would have Paul. It would be perfect.  

But it won’t because I can never tell any of them that I’m an Omega. For years they thought I was a Beta. I was too young to tell back when I joined the group. Years after and they still think so.

They still think so despite the obvious stash of heat suppressants in any overnight bag I carry. Like the one I do today. I can’t stop thinking about them. I’m due heat around about now and I hope I’ve taken enough of them to hide it. I really hope so. It’s not like I’ve never taken them before around the band, I have and I’ve never hidden them, but this time, it just feels… ineffective.

I hurry up to keep with my three friends, speeding my walk until I’m right behind them. Right behind Ringo.

Back in Hamburg, I took heat suppressants and it was all fine. The boys probably would’ve have realised if I was in heat anyway, with the whole prostitutes and sex everywhere we turned. Having a slight slab of wood between your legs would’ve been quite normal. And Ringo wasn’t with us for part of Hamburg, so I wasn’t so afraid of missing a pill or them not working.

The four of us enter a grand hotel. It’s far nicer than the ones we’re used to. Not the gold standard, but we’re not expecting five stars just yet. Nothing too fancy. We’re just four little boys from Liverpool, we don’t need much in the ways of snazzy décor or people waiting on us hand and foot. I’m happy to wait on my own hands and feet, they are mine after all.

Eppy has a word with the receptionist whose eyes light up when she hears our name. She peers behind him to see us, lined up like kids in school, John at the front, gaping at the lobby. I’m still hanging behind Ringo, stealing looks into my bag every so often as though I can take my pills with my eyes.

“What do yeh think, Georgie?” A voice coaxes me from my anxious silence.

“As long as there’s a bed and a bathroom, I’m in.” I say. All this worrying and lack of sleep on the drive over has given me a throat full of gravel. Ringo, who asked me the question, narrows those eyes of his in obvious concern. I involuntarily swallow.

“You sound tired.”

“Am.”

“Boys, this way.” Calls Eppy and we follow him towards the spiralling stairs. As we pass the receptionist, John winks at her, making stupid, suggestive eyes. He gets a push from Paul. Paul’s as much of an Alpha as John is outside of their relationship. He doesn’t like to be out of control and he’s always doing something. He doesn’t half boss us around in the studio as well. It gets right under John’s skin, but he doesn’t always mind, as long as he’s got Paul bent over his bed later in the day.

We have two rooms. I look at them, the space between them, knowing that there will probably be enough beds for us all. Secretly, I hope that there will be one double bed, but if anyone will dibs that room before any of us have the chance, it’ll be John. Not a chance he’d pass up the opportunity to sleep in a bigger, comfier bed with his Paulie for an Alpha that isn’t getting any and a Beta who doesn’t want some. Ringo and I skulk into the room on our left and see two beds. Ringo immediately goes for the right one, so, though disappointed, I head to the one left. I sling my bag down and place my suitcase against the wall. Boy, tonight will be shit if I seem as nervous as I feel.

Thinking it can’t do me any more harm, I duck into the bathroom for a piss, to check the time- four hours should do it- and take another pill. It does not do much to settle my nerves.

Certainly not when, as soon as I’m back in the main room, John comes bounding in, followed swiftly by Paul.

“Fancy a drink?” The latter asks as he grins at his Alpha. John runs between our beds, snoops in Ringo’s bag and brings out a fresh set of cigarettes.

“Hey! There mine!” Ringo points out, but he doesn’t really mind. He’s smiling, taking one for himself. I realise that Paul was asking me.

“Oh, you two going down then?”

“Just me. Fancied something to help me sleep. This one’s going to stay and write a song or something. You tagging along?”

I don’t really want to leave Ringo, but he looks too interested in what John’s doing at the moment. No doubt John will forget to go and write a song. He’ll spend all his time in here if he’s not careful.

Paul holds the door for me, then gestures down the steps. I’ve no idea where we’re getting this drink. I didn’t even realise this place had a bar. Perhaps it doesn’t.

“I wanted to talk to you, Georgie.” Paul pipes up as he walks slightly behind me. I slow down so I can hear him properly, “I just want to talk to someone, and you won’t judge me about it, right?”

Whatever the ‘it’ is, I say “Of course not.”


	2. Paul

 

John is a difficult guy to get along with, everyone knows that. He’s loud and sarcastic on stage and can be downright rude and obnoxious off of it. Hell, our first meeting, one of the very first things he said to me was some witty comment about me playing myself rather than the guitar. Yet I stayed with him. I’m fucking mated with him now. How crazy do you have to be?

Pretty crazy, I guess. Crazy enough to love how possessive he is. How jealous he can be. I’m known to be popular with the girls, yet here I am, mated with a man (a man, which is a little strange in its self) who hates me flirting with anyone but him. I do try not to, most of the time. It’s sometimes all too fun to fire the boy up and let him have me however he wants me to make up for it.

But John is not just like that. He’s kind to me. He can be romantic. He’s a funny romantic. The type to buy you flowers, but make you search for them. The type who will draw a picture of you going down on him to make you smile when you’re feeling shit. That’s love, no matter what people say.

I think the most difficult thing about John is that he is a little messed up. We both are. Ok, we’re both fucking messed up. He doesn’t know how to cry, how to express any kind of emotion, while I just… have to be kept busy or I’ll go crazy. I may already be.

John really never learnt how to express his emotions, which came to be a problem between us. He could show love all well and good, a few good, money-making songs made fantastic masks for messages of love to me. Other feelings, though, not so good.

Before we set off for this next trip, we’d had something of a fight that came down to John being angry because of all that pent-up frustration he hadn’t a clue how to let out. Sex worked for some kinds of frustration, but for this one, he found it ineffective. I came into our room just before we were about to get into the car that would take us to Eppy’s place and found John quietly scrawling on a sheet of paper. I crawled onto the mattress beside him, wrapped my arms around his dormant arm and licked behind his ear.

I was then promptly smacked on my wrist.

“What was that for?” I exclaimed, drawing away from my Alpha.

“I’m doing something. Don’t you have fucking eyes?” Angry John spat every last word with venom like a snake. Blinking a few times, I composed myself before trying again to charm him out of his bad mood, not by touching this time.

“I have eyes. Eyes that see some future fucking, if that would please you, Johnny.”

“Alpha.” John corrected.

I shook my head apologetically, “Alpha.” I bat my long eyelashes, smiled at him suggestively. Nothing would make him meet my eye. He continued to draw circles on a sheet of paper. He was being difficult to love again. Gritting my teeth, I got up onto my feet and pulled the handle of my suit case over to me.

“Well, if you’re not doing anything, we need to go. Eppy will have a fit if we’re late.”

John flung the sheet of paper and pen onto our bedside table before joining me. He didn’t look angry, he looked distracted. I thought it best not to ask, so I didn’t.

I think sometimes of how easy George has it. He hasn’t got a mate, he’ll never have one in the way that we do, me and John. He’ll never have the trouble of a mood swing prone Alpha, someone who wants to control you, but can’t even control themselves. I don’t envy George, I just see how easy he has it, so happy on his own, hanging out with Ringo without it meaning a thing. Imagine being with your best mate, then going into heat. How embarrassing! The first time that happened around John, I was so humiliated, I refused to see him for weeks on end. Then he turned up at my house and had me against the wall. All’s well that ends well I guess. John would’ve never taken that sort of rejection of me just stopping our friendship because I was embarrassed, but imagine if someone had. You may see them all the time, but they now have seen you at your most vulnerable.

And talking of vulnerable.

“Paul, you like the way I look, right?”

I turned around to see John not looking at me. “Of course, I do, yeh big oaf.” I laughed.

John didn’t laugh back. He tensed up, tugging down his shirt subtly as he stuffed one hand into his jean pockets. I cocked my head to one side. “You ok?” I asked.

“The papers. They called me…” He grit his teeth, physically grinded them, then sucked and bit his bottom lip in the way he always does, “Let’s just go.”

“Oh no.” I pushed him back as he tried to barge past me. Why did I feel like the Alpha all of a sudden? “What did they say, luv?” That feeling was soon gone when John swiped my hands off his chest to hold them by his side, both my wrists in one of his hands.

“They called me the ‘Fat Beatle’ alright? You’re the cute one, George is the quiet one, Ringo’s the funny one and I’m the fucking fat one. How’s that for a headline? Now can we please go!” He stormed out the door, leaving my hands hanging in mid-air. The _fat_ one? I couldn’t see it. As I wandered out onto the road, shutting the front door behind me, I looked at John and thought ‘these people must be stupid. He must be stupid for thinking their right.’ He’ll never believe that, but I hated to think he’d believe reporters over me.

Getting into the hotel is no better. George and Ringo hang back, leaving me hiding behind John. He hasn’t talked much on the drive here and I’m not sure if waiting until the hotel doors are clear for us to get in is the best time to talk to him.

Not that it stops me, though.

“John.” I mutter, leaning in so that my lips over his ear, “I can’t wait to get into the hotel. Will you please take me? Please. On the bed, or against the wall. All over the place. Let’s put out mark on it.”

John shrugs away from me, smiling to the crowd of girls that horde the street around us. Police are trying to make some kind of parting in the red sea while Eppy stands in front of us, ready to give the signal to move. It looks like we’ll be here for a bit longer, so I get up on my tippy toes to really get close to John. “C’mon luv. I want you to knot me.”

I was about to say more, to go on a whole other trip about how I wanted him to knot me, in what position, when he spins his head around and glares at me, “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll knot you right here, right now and you’ll watch what kind of shit we get into.”

Eppy gives us the signal and John is off like a greyhound. I’m following through the branch-like arms reaching out to get a feel of us. I hear the other two hurry as well.

The hotel is very nice, really nice. It looks nothing like the places we used to say at, but I used to love those. Being all snug with carefree John, wrapped around him in the only places we were allowed to look like an actual mated couple. Back then, we weren’t though. I can’t imagine those days without imagining John by my side.

Now, he stands in front of me, making meaningful eye contact with the receptionist. I shove him as we are taken up the stairs to our rooms. I pray for a nice big, cosy bed with lots of duvets to hid under. I get two single beds, two overly soft pillows each and a huge space between us.

“Make yourselves at home, boys and get a good night’s sleep for tomorrow.” Eppy calls after us as the door shuts behind us.

I place my stuff down, disappointed in our room.

“It’s nice.” I lie, “Do you think the other two have a double bed?”

John looks up, not looking so angry anymore. The smile from earlier may be wiped off his face as soon as he entered privacy, but his expression is light, he looks me directly in the eyes, softly. “Do you want to check?” He sounds tired.

“Sure.”

That tiredness dies away in favour for a puppy dog bounciness bounding into George and Ringo’s room. I need a drink…

George pads slowly out of the bathroom, looking bewildered by John who grabs a cigarette from Ringo’s bag. I guess he’ll want to say with Ringo. They already start talking before I have a chance to say anything. I force a smile and look over a George again.

“Fancy a drink?”

“Oh, you two going down then?”

Glancing at John, I feel a pang of guilt. I’m not sure why. He shows no indication of wanting to come and get a drink. He smokes by the window while Ringo lights up. “Just me.” I suck in a long breath, “Fancied something to help me sleep. This one’s going to stay and write a song or something. You tagging along?”


	3. Ringo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to do a chapter each, so expect a John one next

John jumps onto the bed that would be George’s, smoking one of my cigarettes as though he never had stolen it from me. I’ll get him back tomorrow when he’s not paying attention. I’ll take one right out of his fingers if he’s not careful. He’s a terror for taking cigarettes. As long as he saves his for a good, long time, he doesn’t care who has to buy new ones when he’s smoked all of theirs.

I turn onto my side, propped up by my arm for a moment, then collapse with it under my head, because I’m knackered. I got barely any sleep last night and I couldn’t sleep in the car. All this running about is going to play havoc with my health. I’m sickly without being rushed off my feet. I’m the oldest one of the band, yet I feel like the youngest, running off to hospitals so people have to look after me, leaving the other guys to find another drummer.

I haven’t had much trouble recently, despite feeling so tired. My trouble right now is George. That kid has been acting weird around me all day. Perhaps it’s because I’m due my rut soon. He’s always so shady when it comes to Alpha or Omega stuff. For an outsider looking in on a biological urge, it must be weird and George is quietly pervy, not openly comfortable with that sort of thing.

Taking a long drag of my cigarette, I lay my heavy head down on the pillow, still facing John who stairs at the smoke dancing from his mouth.

“Where’d the ladies go?” I ask about George and Paul. John shrugs his shoulders tensely. There’s something up about Paul, I guess. Just to test the waters, I joke, “Well, I mean, Paulie’s your lady, isn’t he John? Georgie isn’t really an… “

Tapping a nerve, it would seem, John flinches around and shoots me a look, “Why don’t you go off and knot George, luv.” He spits with all the venom he can muster. He’s not in such a great mood as he’d been making out earlier. To be fair, it wasn’t all smiles in the car, not at all. He was very quiet, unusually so. Then he was smiling at those girls, got a shove from Paul, bound in here without spending so much as five minutes in the other room. I sense that something is not good at all.

Quietly, I try to keep things light hearted, replying, “If I could, luv, I would.”

John looks at me again, this time with an expression akin to confusion. I realise what I just said.

“You like George?” He inquires, his angry voice changed from a second ago into purely intrigued. I stare blankly back at his half grinning lips, his brown eyes wildly sparkling.

“Was only trying to follow your orders.” I try to look casual by picking up a newspaper from inside my bag. I use it to cover my lips as I bite them in embarrassment, _say nothing more_.

It’s not that I like George like _that_. It’s probably just the Alpha mentality playing on my closeness to him. While John’s off satisfying his rut with Paulie, I’m always next to George, pretending I’m not thinking about if it was us, heading into our bedroom that we’d share, knotting because we can’t stop ourselves, we need each other. Sometimes I think it’s just because George is the closest one to me and I’m not getting many girls, certainly not Omegas, that I like him.

I mean, the kid is the youngest of our lot, how am I supposed to look after him, hang out with him and not be a little bit interested in him. He even seems like he should be an Omega, unless that’s just wishful thinking. He’s shy, quiet, gentle. He’s got a mean streak, of course, a slightly more evil side that could include aggression- I’d seen him go for a punch a few times… I guess he is just a normal Beta. I wish he wasn’t, because he is quite good-looking. The girls all go for Paulie, but I must say that, in looks, he can’t compete with George and his barely tameable, long hair, his angular face, those pair of dark eyes. While Paul looks like a baby, George has an illusion of seeming both young and mature at once. Not to mention those lips of his. Those shapely, pink lips…

I try not to think of him like that, not ever, because he’s a beta and its just silly.

Once I stop blushing, I dare to look back at a grinning John. “Well, where did they go?” I sigh in seeing that he’s not letting the George comment slide.

“To get a drink or something. Wasn’t listening.”

To Paul? He usually listens to Paul. He’s the only person John will ever listen to. I keep patching up this problem between them like a quilt, each clue being a slab of dark coloured fabric hiding their issues that I sew together in my mind. I narrow my eyes at him.

“You didn’t listen?” I say in disbelief. John doesn’t verbally reply. He gazes down at his hands, the cigarette blazing away on its own between his fingers. He nods slightly before bringing his eyes back up and looking at me as though nothing had been said. I decide that it may be time to ask, “Is everything alright with Paul?”

John visibly shudders, not in anger, almost in pain, “No. We had a fight. For an Omega, he’s sure got a mouth on him, y’know.” He laughs awkwardly.

“What did he say?”

“Just…” He pauses, again looking away from me. His eyes have been darting everywhere today. The amount of actual eye contact happening is minimal. I wonder if he’s on something. Maybe that was what they fought about, he was too high to care, or always high, something along those lines. Then again, I’d be surprised, Paul can be a little out of it for a while. I wait to see if John continues, egging him on with my raised eyebrows. “…It wasn’t him.” He finally says, “I need to apologise.”

I nod slowly. Well, that’s big of him. He’s never one to admit when he was wrong, never one to apologise first, or at all. I feel… well… proud! He’d slug me one if I ever told him that. “Are you alright, then?” I ask, “What was it that you fought about?”

He shakes his head and I know not to ask. I continue to smoke, half falling asleep between drags.

George is on my mind. I’ll fall asleep thinking about him if I’m not careful. That happened once, but I don’t think he ever knew about it. I’m not the type to talk in my sleep. I’m just a good one for snoring, or so the boys tell me. It’s my nose, you see. I can’t do anything about it. I was born with it this huge!


	4. John

I’m not in the mood. Not to pack up, not to get in a car, not to make idle small talk like rich arseholes pretending to like each other. We were never like that. I want to lie down, maybe using Paul’s lap as my pillow and I want to sleep. I’m also hungry. It’s disgusting how hungry I am.

Fuck it, I won’t eat for the rest of the day.

I’m a depressive little shit these days. I swear there was a time when I was happy. Oh yeah! It was when I was left well enough alone. No running around, no press expecting stuff from me. Oh, and we’re only going to grow. The Beatles will be in every bloody paper, every TV spot, every cinema. You read that right, we’re going to have a fucking movie made. Of what? We can’t just play songs the whole time and, unless people want to see us being trampled by fans, you tell me where we’re going to film it.

I’m not unhappy. I tell myself that a lot. When I have Paul beneath me, I’m smiling. When we kiss, I’m not unhappy. When he jokes with me, I’m laughing and carefree. And when he’s in heat… fuck!

I have a beautiful man that is all mine. I’m happy! I promise. Why can’t I see that the most handsome man ever to wander into my band loves me. Ewww, mushy shit.

I feel bad for shouting at him, but I feel even worse for telling him that I think I’m fat. What am I? A fucking Omega? A girl? Will I get ready for a concert, look in the mirror and ask Paul if the lack of collar on our beige tailor-made suit makes me look fat?

Now that we’re in the car, I curl up against the closed door, and close my eyes. I get to writing a song in my head to calm me down. There’s only me, Paul and Eppy in the back, some nameless guy driving. The car pulls off the roadside to head towards George or Ringo’s place, if they’re not waiting together. I can’t be bothered to ask. I really don’t care. I don’t even care for the lyrics lazily forming in my head. They’ll never be a hit.

Paul and I got together back in our Quarrymen days. Everyone thought I was secretly hot for my friend Stu Sutcliff, but, as much as I loved him, he was a beta and I didn’t have a _thing_ for him. We were close. Very close. Then came this cute 15-year-old, carrying a guitar over his shoulder, ready to audition for a band that wasn’t technically hiring. It was just a group of us kids from school. I didn’t quite realise that we would suddenly be recruiting people from elsewhere as though we were some famous group. I just liked making music and I didn’t give a shit who I made it with.

This kid, however, changed me. I wanted to make music with him. He could play guitar far better than me, he had this flippant attitude like me, but not quite on my level. He wrote songs like no one else I knew. He… may have even been better… at that than me, but I’ll never tell him that. He doesn’t need a bigger ego. Might get in the way of his proper place as my Omega.

I remember when I found out that he was an Omega. I was already aware of my being an Alpha and I thought that it was the best thing in the world. I mean, I had an appendage made for fucking that was way better than a normal Beta’s. And I when I was on my rut, my god, it was great. An Omega here, an Omega there, some pretty girls who’d been hiding the fact that every so often, they got so turned on, it was impossible to hide. They were literally begging for it.

And there came the day that Paul, after quietly keeping his Omega status from me, was singing with me at school and that _smell_ arose from him. A leaking Omega, I knew it at once. I stopped myself from pouncing on him, of course, I wasn’t going to force myself on anyone, especially not a guy without knowing if they were queer. I may not have been, but I wanted, loved, admired Paul with an intensity I had not been able to muster for anyone else. I asked him if he was ok, why the fuck he didn’t tell me that he was an Omega and if he had an Alpha that would take care of him. Those huge, brown eyes of his gazed up at me through an embarrassed gloss before shooting off home.

I didn’t see him for god knows how long after that. I hated not seeing him. It was making me angrier to think that he may have thought I was coming onto him, that’s why I asked him so many questions. That wasn’t the case. I wanted to tell him. I wanted, as it was my job as an Alpha, to look after him at such a vulnerable time. Yes, I fancied him, but no I would not take advantage of him. Definitely not. I stormed around to his house, insisted that I see him, then barged my way into his room to explain what I had meant by my questions. Paul lay on his bed, a comic in hand, looking up at me with similar, ashamed eyes. I stared at him hard, telling him that I wasn’t trying to come onto him, I was a friend and if he thought I’d do something like that, he should snap out of it.

 Once I was done yelling at him, he opened his full, perfectly shaped lips to counter, “I didn’t think that.” I froze. Well, I looked like a paranoid idiot. “I was embarrassed because…” He stood up, walked towards me, leant in to whisper in my ear… “I wanted you to take advantage of me.”

Ever since I then shoved him up against his bedroom wall, we’d been mates. Mates as in lovers or whatever bullshit you want to call it, not mates as in friends. We were longer friends than we have been lovers.

“John, have you everything packed?” Eppy’s posh tone brings me from what small dreams I was having instead of writing that shit song.

“Yes.” I spat back without opening my eyes, “You don’t need to check on me, Eppy.”

We get to George’s place, pick up the two boys who stand on the road as though they’re waiting for the school bus to take them to school. We then get to the hotel in one or two hours where we’re ambushed by the usual crowd of maniacs.

Standing outside the car, I lead the boys to the hotel door, having to make a run for them else we’ll be attacked by the swarms of girls’ hands reaching for us. I hit several on the way with my body, by accident I mean.

“Bloody hell.” I curse once we’re inside. Not because of the mental trip here, because of the handsome girl with long, dark eyelashes, flipping her hair as she greets us.

“The Beatles?” She hums, peering behind Eppy to glance us. I grin at her, making her shyly glance down at her slender hands. A wedding ring clings around one finger. Too bad. She probably would’ve made for a nice shag, had she been free. I bet she’s wishing the same. As I stare at her, her tight, appealing uniform pulling her breasts up and out, I feel a shove on my shoulder by the boy standing behind me. Paul gives me a half dirty look, though I know he’s probably had a look or two at her as well. He’s not meant to be jealous, I am. The boy thinks he’s my Alpha. I’d teach him a lesson if I felt at all up to getting any clothes off tonight. Full pyjamas are in order I feel.

We head up to our room, which is surely a step up from our usual caves in the era of debauchery in Hamburg, having fancy pillows decorating our single beds, towels folded on the ends of them. I stride into the one Paul and I automatically go for together and I sling everything under one bed. It’ll be mine for a short time. Looks good enough to sleep on, though I’d happily sleep on the pavement outside right now.

It’s nice.” Paul walks in a little way behind me. I see him regarding George and Ringo’s room before he shuts the door behind him. “Do you think the other two have a double bed?”

He doesn’t sound mad at me for earlier. I think he’s trying to distract me from it. He wants me in a good mood so that we might talk about it later. He’s such a girl, wanting to talk. I want a distraction too. “Do you want to check?” I suggest.

“Sure.”

I leap into action, speeding into the other room, bursting through the door with so much force that I can’t slow down quick enough. I push against the adjacent room, finding myself next to Ringo and his bags. Below me sits his ‘hand luggage’ the small overnight bag with a packet of cigarettes popping out the top as though it were calling to me, _John, take one._

“Hey! There mine!” Ringo cries while George and Paul start talking. I hand Ringo one of his own cigarettes and my lighter to light it with. I then light mine, just as the Omega and Beta leave the room. Where they fucked off to, I couldn’t care less. The idea of coming in here to see if they had a double bed, we both lost interest in. I guess it was just an excuse not to talk. I will take any distraction I can get.

“Where’d the ladies go?” Or I’ll be forced to talk about it with someone else… as it seems.


	5. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue heavy

“So, are you ok?” I ask. It feels right. Paul obviously wanted to get away from the rooms for some reason. I take the large, over filled glass that had been plopped in front of me, spilling several streams of drink onto the coaster beneath it, and sip the top gently. I look like a kid, having to lean down to drink, lifting the glass barely millimetres off the table. Oh yeah, I’ve always been a real man. I can handle my drink, but I can’t hold it. Work that one out.

Paul sits across from me with a matching glass in his hand though the bartender managed to fill it up properly. Paul’s hand doesn’t get a showering in alcohol when he lifts it to his lips. We sit on a table that’s so tall we have to sit on stalls with those bars between legs where we rest our feet, because they can’t touch the floor.

“Oh, um…” He seems to have swallowed the drink the wrong way. He just about prevents himself from spluttering all over the table. “I’m good.” The default answer. I scoff and Paul gets it. He wouldn’t have asked only me here if he didn’t want to talk. “John… told me something. I’m worried about him, George.”

Not trying to be mean, I scoff again, “What can I do about it? I’ve got my own stuff to sort out too, you know.” I haven’t forgotten my heat. It sits in the back of my mind, this time around. Constantly reminding me that I should be feeling unbelievably horny. I should be touching myself in the bathroom of mine and Ringo’s room, unable to stop myself. The pills seem to have given me this paranoia that they won’t work. I constantly feel as though I am too hot, that my cheeks are burning red, that I’m getting turned on, when these small indicators of my heat never progress. I don’t mean to be so dismissive of Paul, but I can’t stop feeling anxious.

“Yeah,” Paul says as though he has any idea what’s going on with me. I feel… suddenly short tempered.

Before Paul can continue, I hasily cut in, “Sorry Paul. I don’t know what’s up with me. It’s…” My voice is barely above a whisper when I say, “Ringo.” Paul thankfully doesn’t hear. He waves his hand as though erasing my words. He doesn’t seem hurt at all.

“Forget it.” He insists, then continues, “John’s just… it’s been getting to me too, this whole… thing. But John read something and…” knowing he’s making no sense, he shakes his perfectly combed mop-top and starts again, “Did you know that John’s a little conscious about his body?”

News to me. “No.” I say through a sip of my drink.

“Yeah. He read in a newspaper or something that they called him the ‘Fat Beatle’ and he asked me if I liked his body and of course I do. He’s gorgeous, but he won’t listen to me. He won’t listen to anyone.”

“There’s no proving to John that he has a nice body. Everyone has something they want to change about themselves.” I say. It’s not helping. Who wants to hear that there is nothing you can do? No matter the good cheer Paul takes my advice in, I know it’s not good enough and try to think of something, anything that’ll change John’s mind. “Just, you could… tell him every day how beautiful he is. Tell him…” I’m getting soppy. When did I become a romantic advice columnist? Still, the look on Paul’s face tells me not to stop, “…the parts you love about him, body parts and the little things he does.”

I think of Ringo. I like when he dances. It’s a stupid thing to like, but he dances like a dad trying to do the new, hip dance craze, yet somehow pulls even the dad look off. I like his mesmerising blue eyes, the way he winks with his whole face, his giant nose that you have to look past to see his eyes. There. If only Paul were in love with Ringo, there’s a whole list of things to like.

“Do you think he’ll listen?” Paul asks while I’m dreaming of Ringo. I feel a slight spike of unsatisfying pleasure in my stomach. It’s worse than anything I’ve felt all day. I lay my arm over my stomach and try not to think about heat.

“Choose your moments to say it, and he’ll listen, Paulie.” I drink down a larger gulp of alcohol.

“Hey…” Paul sounds concerned. I try to react with surprise, not worry. I place the glass down calmly and look into his eyes. “You’ve gone really red. Are you ok?”

Burning cheeks. I grit my teeth. I’m craving another swig of drink, but it’ll look too suspicious. “Fine.” I say. Paul drinks, so I do too, but his eyes never leave me.

“You said you’ve got your own problems. Want to talk?”

“John was right.” I laugh gently, “You are a girl.”

“When did he say that?”

“Oh, about a week ago or something.”

Paul scowls, more at the image of John in his head rather than at me. I don’t believe he’s much of a girl.

“Ok, I want to talk.” I decide, long before my mind has a chance to stop me. Well, I guess this is going to come out in the open, but I must not mention Heat, Omegas or Ringo. I repeat these subjects in my mind, then discard them in hopes that I won’t accidently say anything. “I like this… person, but I’m not sure what everyone might think about me if I tell them that I…”

Paul cuts in again, “It’s Ringo.”

 _Don’t mention Ringo!_ I thought I told myself that. Then I realise that it wasn’t me and, if my eyes had not already been so wide that my eyeballs were practically falling out of my face, they are now, rolling off the table onto the dead grotty, sticky floor. “W-what?”

“Come off it.” Paul takes my removed eyes and rolls them because he no longer has the capacity to do it himself, “You have been smitten with Ringo. It’s not like me and John, though. You two have kind of been pushed together, hu?”

I can’t reply. Not even a squeak in denial.

“I mean, John and I have been together for as long as we can remember, so you and Ringo have kind of been placed together. Oh, he’s great, Georgie, but I didn’t realise you swung that way.” I look down as Paul says exactly what I’m thinking, “It’s just him. I know. It’s just John for me. But there is nothing wrong with liking guys.”

I know that. We have Brian to thank for teaching us that and we all love him. Not in that way, I mean that we all listen to him, we take what he says seriously. I still can say nothing, so look to Paul to be my mouth, or at least my prompter. He understands my helpless expression as though I spoke it.

“What’s up, though? Is it just that you like him and he’s an Alpha? Alphas and Betas get together all the time.”

“No,” I whisper, barely above the idle chatter in the bar, “I want him, Paul. I do, but I can’t…”

I can’t tell you what’s up! Understand that! I’m an Omega whose been hiding it for years. I’ve lied to three of my best mates. I’m on heat suppressants and they’re killing me, making me paranoid and all. And one of those previously mentioned best mates, I happen to be in love with. For ages, I wanted to be nothing more than a regular Beta who walks through life with not a cycle that turns me into an animal every chance it gets. I’d worked to hide being an Omega from everyone, It’s… just… been too long now. Wearily, I look at Paul, pretty Omega Paul, openly Omega Paul who barely has a worry in the world. These heat suppressants are making me crazy.

“I just want someone to put their arms around me, tell me that I’m cool and talented and appreciate me because, no offence Paul, but, like you said, it’s always been you and John and Ringo and I were just shoved together. That’s why I think I like him, because he never minded being side tracked. He was always just happy to be a part of us. And all this nonsense my brain is telling me about wanting him to knot me because I’m in…” I stop right there. One, it’s untrue, I don’t only like Ringo because we were put together. I like him because of so much more. Two, I just said that I wanted Ringo to knot me, something I’d claimed not to know about before and I almost said I was in heat. Seeing Paul’s face light up with confusion, I try to rewrite my words, “I was always jealous of what you and John have, talent and relationship wise…”

Paul is no longer listening, “No…” He breathes, “You… bloody- It’s obvious, isn’t it! You and those pills.” I bite my lip. I’ve never hidden those pills. I didn’t need to. They looked like pain pills, or sleeping pills. How could he… “All those times John made eyes at you and I just thought it was a joke. But you were in heat, weren’t you?”

I gulp, “What’s heat again?”

“Don’t even try it! You’re a sneaky little Omega! Oh, Ringo has to know, you two would be mates… Oh tell me that wouldn’t be perfect.”

“It wouldn’t be perfect.” I say, matter-of-factly. Paul’s smile, his raised eyebrows, his gasp, drops.

“Why not?” He whines.

“Because he probably doesn’t like me. Because I don’t want people knowing that I’m an Omega, it gives you a weak reputation. Because I’m… technically meant to be on heat right now, but… the pills.”

Paul proudly sits up, “John won’t let me take those things. They’re not good. They’re not natural, you know, to hold back heat. And I’m an Omega and I don’t have a weak reputation.”

“Because you act like an Alpha and you look like,” I gesture at his handsome body, his beautiful lips, his always hooded eyes, “that!” He looks at himself for a minute, looks even more proud, then back up at me.

“Don’t be silly.” He says, “No one would ever think you’re an Omega. You look like you’ve got a sexy dominant side and you take no shit from anyone. But, again, no one has a problem with Omegas. It’s a part of who some people are, like it’s a part of Alphas to be Alphas or Betas to be Betas. It’s as natural as our gender.”

“C’mon,” I moan, “No more lectures. I just… want Ringo, but I want our relationship to feel like yours as John’s, like friends turned lovers.”

“Which is what it will be.”

I shuffle. He doesn’t get it. How do I ask for help if he doesn’t get it? I sort of want help, I gave some to him, so he feels obligated to do me a favour in return. My mind is melting, I need to sleep. I rub my head, having now contracted a headache and look up with helpless eyes, once again.

“Ok, first things first, get the fuck off those pills. I know it’ll be hard, but I’ll give you this wash that will stop the smell of your heat and just deal with the…” He makes an obscene gesture with his hand close to his chest, “…at night when Ringo is asleep. I’ll keep your secret and I’ll help you get Ringo, to make it feel like natural. I promise I’ll try.”

I nod, feeling humiliated, but so fucking relieved. Paul would’ve been a great Alpha, a loving, possessive Alpha. He tells me to go to bed and hugs me before we go into our separate rooms. I’m not looking forward to going off the pills or tomorrow, but I know that Paul is feeling a bit nervous about going into a room where he’ll be alone with John. I shoot a small smile his way before he slides behind his door.

I hear him say a quick “Thanks, by the way.” Then he’s gone.

And I am too.


	6. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor sexual content

“You ladies back?” George wanders into the room smiling, but he’s without Paul. I don’t want to ask where Paul is straight away, so I grind out my cigarette to distract me.

“Oh,” I don’t think George expected me to stay in here for this long. Granted I am meant to be working on a song, but he doesn’t know that. “Yeah. We just went for a drink. Paul went back to your room. Are you two alright?”

Ringo is half asleep buried in the duvet that is bunched up on one side of him, it’s like he made a person out of bed dressing. He moans some kind of reply that no one really understands. George and I share a smile. We know that the poor boy is knackered. We all are at the moment.

“I’m ok.” I automatically reply, then get up because I’ve stolen Georgie’s bed. Before I leave, though, I suddenly get a surge of want when thinking about Paul. I want to see him. I hope he’s in a good mood, “How’s Paulie? Was he mad at me?”

I can’t make out George’s expression because it’s like he’s trying to hide some kind of sympathetic grin, concealed by a bite of his vampire teeth into his lips. His eyes always sparkle with more meaning than the rest of his face. “Not at all. He’s fine.”

I open the door and head to see him.

The way this hotel is set out with its balcony style hallways looking over the ground floor, it feels like someone built a colosseum the wrong way around. Instead of having every ring around the main area getting bigger each time, each floor gets smaller the further you go up. And it’s not circular, its square. As I imagined, the rooms get bigger the further you go up, as the building doesn’t have a weird tip like some pyramid, it’s one big block. There are just less rooms that take bigger spaces and a triangular space where you can see up to the ceiling. On our floor, there are three rooms on three sides of the square. The fourth houses the stairs and lift down to the ground floor. As I thought before, this is certainly not like Hamburg where we’d camp out sometimes actually in the places we’d be performing, or skulking through the streets of the red-light districts.

Part of me kind of misses those days. We were proper rock and rollers. We had to fight back when we were there, us little kids from Liverpool, ditching our teddy boy threads for heavy leather get-ups and functioning on mere hours of sleep. We’d have to cope with our vocal chords being shredded into tuneful screams, our instruments being abused daily. We looked the part, we played the part.

Now we are look-a-like suits wandering the corridors of swanky hotels, hiding from the most feared creature known to famous types- fans. I hear them crying for us, hear our names being shouted at the top of overused lungs.

I shut the door to mine and Paul’s room to block them out. We are around the back of the hotel, so none of the fans can scream at our window. They sound like a faraway audience to a rock concert that we are, thankfully, not playing at.

Paul is sitting on the floor between our beds when I walk in. He has a cigarette between his lips and the hotel’s stationary on his lap including a stylish Parker Pen that has, engraved in gold, the name of the hotel on it. Now that is worth stealing, not the usual tiny tubs of shampoo or body wash or linin or towels. A proper Parker Pen! I eye it with a cheeky grin on my face. They won’t miss it, I convince myself.

“What are you looking at like that?” Paul chuckles. He’s in a good mood.

“The pen,” I whisper. Paul looks down at it. Judging by the smile that brightens his handsome face, he has the same idea as me.

“It writes really well.” He encourages me to try it. I sit beside him and write my signature. The ink flows out with the gentlest of touch. Beside my signature, I realise that Paul has written a few lines of something. I take to reading it while he’s distracted with the pen, “We’ll write some proper hit with it, wouldn’t you say?”

“Is that what you’re doing now?” I ask, pointing down at the underlined title. Only three or four lines follow after it, but, of what I’ve read, it sounds good.

Paul shrugs, humbly, “Well, seen as you were off with Ringo when you were meant to be writing…” I give him a guilty look, “…I thought I might beat you to it. You really think it might be a hit?”

The way Paul looks up at me as though he has no idea how good of a writer he is, his wide, innocent eyes that have seen way too much to corrupt them, they have no reason to look that innocent, bugs me. Of course, it’ll be a fucking hit. His songs always are. His fucking perfect, commercial A-sides that get teenage girls everywhere wet when they listen to the radio. I slap his back, “Are you joking, you bastard?”

“It’s good?”

I roll my eyes. Is he trying to irritate me? I kiss his forehead, getting a mouthful of mop-top by accident. “Just shut up and keep writing. We can work out a tune for it later, what do you say?” He nods, grinning. The smug little bastard. I jump from the floor into my bed and think of undressing.

But… in front of Paul?

I mean, he won’t see at the moment. He’s too busy writing. And I’ll be under the duvet before he’ll dare to look up.

Then again, I have to go and brush my teeth and my bladder is telling me it might need emptying before I sleep. Paul may only see my back… but I don’t want him seeing me at all today.

From my good mood, I sink into a bad one as my mind over thinks everything. Wash now, brush my teeth, have a cigarette, then get into pyjamas in the toilet after I have a piss. Frustrated again, I throw myself onto the floor on the side of the bed that Paul is not on and fish out my toiletries bag from my suitcase.

Fuck! My pyjamas aren’t in here!

I pull out the small leather wash case that I forgot to zip up before I left, my toothbrush still wet in there from the last time I used it and I move a few of my nicely packed suits, casual jumpers for down time, all of my strewn about socks, to see if I just packed my pyjamas near the bottom.

I did not. FUCK.

 _“John, have you everything packed?”_ Eppy had asked. No, Eppy, I do not and I’m bloody sorry for having a go at you earlier. Apparently, I do need someone checking up on me or I’ll leave my FUCKING PYJAMAS BEHIND.

“What are you doing on the floor?” Paul pipes up.

“Getting my toothbrush, what the fuck else would I be doing?” I retort. I can’t see Paul’s face, but he pauses, no doubt wondering why the sudden shift in my mood.

“Writing a song.” He mutters.

I snort and get up with my toiletries bag in one hand. I don’t look at him as I head to the bathroom. I can’t stand his eyes on me at the moment. I close the toilet door, turn on the tap and run my toothbrush under the stream of freezing water.

Body conscious. It’s usually a girl thing, isn’t it? When they think they are fat or are unhappy with a part of themselves. I never was self-conscious before, strutting around with my shirt off when it was too hot to have on, at any sight of the sun, but there was something about that bloody paper that I can’t let go of

I tell myself the writer was probably some fat dick, sitting at his typewriter feeling sorry for himself, so he wanted to belittle someone else. Well, good fucking job dickhead. Now I feel so embarrassed in front of my mate that I’m considering ruining my nice white button-up to sleep in it tonight. Eppy would kill me, but I wouldn’t have to sleep with fat hanging off me as though I were a strung-up pig ready for the chop.

Still, I unbutton the shirt once I’ve brushed my teeth and had a piss. I don’t dare look in the mirror, not for a second. Even my face is fat and ugly. I doubt there are any girls at home wanting a piece of me when they see me on TV. They’ll want thin Paul or even scrawnier George. Even Ringo over me.

I don’t really think that Ringo is bad looking, but I liked to believe that I would come in front of him at a beauty contest. My nose may also be slightly too big too, but… oh I don’t fucking know! I hate myself.

I drop my trousers thinking, ‘I used to be proud of this too.’  The girls would line up for a go. Now all I’ve got is Paul. Paul’s the only one who thinks I’m worth anything now.

I’m really not. Not next to him. He couldn’t be overweight if he tried. He’s got such a well-proportioned body. Nothing is too small or too big. Except that fantastic arse of his. Now that is something you’d wear tight jeans to show off and he does, the little slut. He looks so good like that. If I wore anything that hugged my skin, people would run from me so quickly you’d think someone had just brought out a loaded gun.

Removing my socks with the last of the suit trousers I was wearing, I bundle up my clothes and look at the ajar door, the slit between it and the frame being so small, no one could see in, at least, they wouldn’t see anything substantial.

I sit on the lid of the toilet, wanting to do _something_. I’m alone, sort of. Paul is too distracted to take notice of me. I feel like shit. There has to be _something_ to do.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, not years or anything, probably not weeks at all, but it feels like forever since I’ve taken myself in hand and let pleasure build up until I’m begging own body for release.

Paul… Paul is so gorgeous. His smile is the reason I make a joke out of everything, to see if he’ll laugh. And he has such long, unnaturally long eyelashes for a guy. Is that a strange thing to notice? I mean, you look at his eyes and you can’t help but notice those curls of black hair. He could paint them in mascara and make his eyes even bigger. I couldn’t imagine that. Those huge, beautiful, brown, puppy-dog eyes looking bigger than they do now? They’d take up half his face.

And his lips. His full, pouty lips made for kissing, made for biting, made to ignite every nerve ending they touch. My mind clouds as I think of him kissing my forehead, then my own, thin lips, then down my cheeks, my chin, down my neck, over my chest.

The pleasure stops when I think of my stomach. It makes me feel angry. I tug at myself to try and build up all that pleasure that was lost. I think of Paul sitting on me, riding me.

“John?”

I spin around, placing my bundled-up clothes over my lap. I have no excuse for sitting in here, on the toilet lid, on my own. My hazy mind tries to come up with something as Paul walks in, opening the door gently. If he doesn’t ask, don’t say.

“You were being really quiet.”

“Sorry. I’m coming out now. Did you need to…?” I gesture at the toilet or the shower. Paul shakes his head.

“Later.” He mumbles. I see his gaze fall over me. Despite having much of my stomach covered, I feel as though he can see me, all of me. I couldn’t have cared less if he caught me, hands around what should be touched by him, but I really don’t want him seeing me without clothes on. I stand up, awkwardly, beginning to walk out, when Paul places a hand on my chest. I flinch away from it, though I don’t think he notices. “Let me take those, John,” He says, going for my clothes. I snatch them from his grasp, though keeping myself covered, “You’ll get them creased and Eppy’ll be mad.”

“Then let him be mad.” I snap, barging past him, “I’ll fold them myself, alright? I don’t need you to fucking pander to me.”


	7. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More sexual content. I think that there will be more to come (quite literally), so prepare ;)

I am all ready for bed, only, Ringo wakes up as soon as I sit down, under the duvet, ready to read a magazine. I have open on my legs. Seeing as Ringo had been pretty much indisposed when I walked in, I decided to have a shower, brush my teeth, do the usual routine then snuggle down to do some reading because I wasn’t quite tired enough to sleep.

Sitting up in his bed, Ringo peers over at me, “So, you went off with Paul, right? John mentioned he had a fight with him, did he say anything to you?”

“Paul?” He’s keeping my secret, I decide to keep his. Even if Ringo knows, he’s not getting any more information from me, “Not really. He seemed a bit off, but he always does when he goes for a drink.”

“What did you talk about then?”

 _Don’t go there Ringo!_ I couldn’t hold my tongue with Paul, I don’t know how long I can with Ringo. Ringo, who has shared so much with me. Ringo, who has listened to every complain or rant I’ve ever sprouted. Ringo, my close friend. My crush.

I’ve decided to listen to Paul and stop taking the pills. I’m not sure if it’s because they are still in my system or because I haven’t taken anymore, but I don’t feel right. I’m worried that keeping quiet is going to prove too difficult in the state I’m in.

Taking in a deep breath, I sigh, “The usual. Songs, lyrics, tunes, guitars. The concert tomorrow. Maybe he just wanted a distraction if he had a fight with John. Oh, and he said that this song I wrote could be on the next album!”

Ringo’s blue eyes light up for me, “Ah, that’s great, George. I wish I could write. I envy all three of you.”

“I could write something with you, if you like. I sometimes need help with my lyrics, there’s nothing wrong with that, really. Apart from, if you go to John or Paul, it adds fuel to their ego and they’ll never fully appreciate you, but y’know.” We both laugh. There is some truth in what I say, but I do love John and Paul, no matter if they don’t think I’m quite as versed as them in song writing.

“I’d love that.” Ringo looks very happy. If I could never mate with him, I’d wish to always keep him happy, no matter what shit life will fling at us like an ape in a zoo. To see him smile all the time would be the only accomplishment I’d ever…

I think, whether it be withdrawal symptoms or paranoia, these pills are also making me soppy.

“What would you write about?” I inquire, for some more conversation, as I’m still not tired and this magazine doesn’t hold my attention like Ringo does. Ringo thinks for a moment. He’s taking off his rings, because one of them made an impression in his cheek when he fell asleep on it. It’s still here, a small red square with an outlined circle inside it.

“Someone I love, I guess. You know, the usual love thing. About someone…” He trails off for barely a second before he snaps back like an elastic band that had been stretched for too long, “…Someone I liked, but was scared to tell them that.”

I’m not sure if it shows on my face, but I’m taken aback. That’s exactly how I’m feeling now. I bite my lip as my heart stops. Once it starts again, I smile, about to ask something else. Ringo, however, has more to say.

“It’s happened before. And it’s the most frustrating this, wouldn’t you say? Not being able to tell someone that you like them.”

I’m going to punch him.

“I don’t know.” I lie, “I don’t know if I’ve felt like that before.”

I have. I have, and I do and I fucking hate him right now as much as I like him. What will the song be called? Torture? Kill Me Now? All valid.

“Yeah, but you’re the most shy confident person ever.” He makes himself giggle. It’s the cutest thing. “You know what I mean,”

“Yeah, I do.” I mean, he’s wrong, but I get what he’s talking about.

We go quiet again. Neither of us know what to talk about. I put the magazine into my bag and snuggle down so that the only part of me that you can see is my head, poking out on the white pillows. I still look at Ringo, who shines the last ring that usually sits on his right pinkie.

I have such a thing for Ringo’s jewellery. His four rings, split into pairs for each hand and that fit on the two end fingers. He also owns a chain that hangs on his neck that makes him look so… _hot_ when he has no shirt on. Then he has a bracelet that he rarely wears, but I imagine it on around his wrist as he touches me, his hand twisting and it slapping against his forearm as I’m writhing beneath him. Fuck, what a groovy image.

“God, I _hate_ my rut sometimes.” I hear Ringo mutter.

“What?” I say, pretending that I haven’t heard him. I barely saw him move, because I was too distracted with my fantasy of him, never mind listening to him. But I heard ‘rut’ and that’s all I needed to hear.

“Oh, nothing.” He replies, but he’s obviously irritated.

“Is everything alright?”

He sits on the edge of the bed now, his arms tense as they prop him up, “Sort of. I know you don’t really want to know this, but I’m on my rut.”

I do want to know this. I do.

“Is there anything I can do?” I try to stay neutral, not jumping into his bed to let him satisfy himself with me.

He shakes his head, all too aware that I’m supposedly a Beta. “No, no. I’m going to… I’ll just sleep it off.” He waves his hand at me, before removing his pyjama top and lying back down. He lies so that his chest, one leg and clothes butt is all in my view. I’m so turned on that I have to turn around, or else I will jump into his bed. I want to. Fuck do I!

I can’t touch myself tonight, not like this, not next to him, so I close my eyes and try to write a song… or a riff… or blank my mind completely. The imagine of Ringo touching me with that bracelet on his wrist keeps flashing it off. I’ll sleep it off too, but I’m sure, like Ringo’s rut, it’ll still be there tomorrow.

Especially now that I don’t have my pills. I’m going to need that wash Paul was talking about. I’ll try to get it early tomorrow morning. I can’t quite walk into his room now in my state, nor without an excuse.


	8. Paul

 

“Then let him be mad. I’ll fold them myself, alright? I don’t need you to fucking pander to me.”

I’m left staring at the empty toilet, my shoulder feeling almost bruised as John pushed past me. I don’t think he meant to hurt me, but he has more strength than he is aware of. I turn around and see him sitting in bed. His clothes are in a pile on the floor, of which he has no intention to organise. Not that I do either, I just wanted to do something for him. Slowly I walk back into the bedroom, unsure of what to do. I feel confused. One moment, we’re joking about stealing probably the sexiest pen I’ve ever written with and he’s telling me how good a two-minute writing session of a crappy little song is, then the next, he’s making snarky comments, hiding himself from me.

I remember what George told me to do, but it would be strange if I collapse onto my knees and confess my love for John’s thighs. He has gorgeous thighs. Instead, I walk up to his bed and sit on the floor, my head resting on the mattress beside his waist.

I smile up at him, “I love you, John.” I say.

He looks down at me as though he’s considering those words. It’s not like he’s never heard them before. They’ve always been at the tip of my tongue, hanging in the air between us when we’re alone. He might be wondering why I’m saying them now, after he just had a go at me for seemingly no reason. He doesn’t reply for a long time, so I decide to move on by moving my hand under the duvet and over one of those aforementioned thick, perfect for sitting on, thighs. He tenses, but doesn’t stop me, so I clasp my fingers around his already erect member.

“Been thinking about me, luv?” I joke. He doesn’t look best pleased, but he thrusts up into my hand and his breathing hitches. I tell him again, “I love you, John,” and remove the duvet from him so I can see everything. He’s sweating a bit, chest glistening with a very thin layer of sweat as well as the light dusting of fair hair glittering golden in the low light in here, “Fuck you look hot.”

I see his eyes dart down at himself. He seems overly uncomfortable, especially when he sees me looking at him. I can’t help it. I want to look in his eyes, but he is just too…

He tosses the duvet back over himself and pulls me in for a kiss, his hands grasping at me hard so that I have to follow them.

“Please stop it.” He says through gritted teeth after breaking the kiss. He keeps our foreheads touching.

“Stop what, luv?” I reply, slowing my movements with my right hand. He thrusts up into it again.

“Not that,” He hisses, letting me move back a bit. I now look into his eyes, but he can’t meet my gaze, “Stop looking at me. I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“Paul, don’t fucking play with me.”

“John, I love you. I think you are beautiful, every part of you.” I remove the duvet, starting at his chest, dragging it down until it’s just under his nipples, “I love your chest.” I lick his right collar bone, following its diagonal sweep then curl down to run my tongue around the left, hard nipple. “I love your stomach.” I bring the duvet down to his hips, exposing the part of him he feels most ashamed about. He’s a little bit tubby, but in no way fat. Not even over weight. He’s cuddly and warm, bigger than me, just the way I like it. I lick and kiss his stomach, working down to his bellybutton. “You’re not fat. Please listen to me. Ignore the papers or the magazines or the articles or reports. You’re perfect the way you are, perfect, you hear me?”

“Paul…” He whines.

I meet his gaze this time. He looks very vulnerable, ashamed. “Perfect. Do you hear me?” I repeat.

“Yes.”

I continue moving down his body. I take off the covers completely, throwing them to the floor. “I love this.” I say, doubling my efforts with my hand, then close my mouth around the head. John growls. It’s beautiful. After a few moments of sucking him, I look back at him and grin, devilish, “If anyone tells you that this is anything but perfect, I’ll kill ‘em.” He laughs. It feels like I have not heard him laugh in years. Next, I bite his right thigh, because it’s closest to me. He gasps. “Now, these,” I say between licks, “I have a real thing for.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Not crazy. You got a thing for my butt, I love your…”

“My legs?” John cuts in, “You are a nut.”

“Ok, but I’m nuts for you.”

John watches me kiss his left thigh. I must look a little crazy, but it feels so good. I’m so turned on.

“If you like ‘em so much, you can sit on ‘em.” He says. I jump at the chance.

I hope this has worked. John doesn’t hide from me the whole time. I curl up in his bed after, fully spent, and, because it’s so hot, we sleep outside of the duvet. I touch him all over even after the sex, just because I want him to know how much I love every inch of him.

Before we fall asleep, I’m lying on my side, John’s spooning me and he whispers in my ear, “You make me feel so fucking good, Paulie. Thank you.”

My heart is lifted. I mean, I can barely breathe because it’s beating so fast, but warmth radiates over me. “Promise you won’t worry so much about it anymore.” I insist, “If there is anything I can do to make you feel better, tell me, please.”

“I’ll try my best, luv.”

Now that this is sorted for now, I think about George. It excites me to consider us both having mates, us both having what I have now. It’s difficult, but he’ll love it. Ringo is so sweet, so kind.

I can’t sleep now. My mind is working hard trying to think of how I could help George.

“What do you think of George and Ringo, by the way?” Second opinion is always good.

John is almost asleep, but he wakes up a bit, “Good mates, why?”

“I don’t mean like that. I mean, for them to be together.”

“George’s a beta, how’s that going to work.”

I want to keep George’s secret, so I shut up. “Never mind.”

But John doesn’t leave it alone, “Ringo likes him.”

“Hu?”

“Ringo likes him like that. He said something about knotting George. I guess it would be nice for them to have each other, like we have each other.”

My mind explodes. They like each other? They’re so shy, both of them. You wouldn’t think so, not Ringo, yet they’re in this situation. That makes things easier, “Yeah,” I affirm, “George likes Ringo too. It could work if, even if Georgie’s a Beta. But please don’t say anything. I’m keeping out of it too.” What lies, but I know John would’ve just bound back into their room, declaring the love they both feel for one another. He nods against my neck, then falls asleep.

I guess that’s all the help I’m going to get on this.


	9. Ringo

Orange sunlight streaks into our room, through a slit in the curtains. Though I had been buried amongst the two feather filled pillows, one either side of my head length ways, the light somehow worked its way around the folds of white bedding to wake me up.

The clock on our bedside table says 7. I say it’s too early and try to drift off again. Never one for early mornings, I really hoped for a nice lay in, then a late shower and brunch.

My rut makes things very difficult. As I try to drift off back to sleep, my mind brings up all manners of filthy images. A pretty Omega girl squirming in heat, leaking from excitement. She would beg me to take her, to be her mate, and I’d deny her until she was practically screaming. Slowly I would have her, leading up to knotting in the most sluggish way, she’d hate me for it until release. After that, of course, she would be happy that I took my time, or else she would be begging for more so soon that I would not be ready.

But the worst image I have- worst, because it excites me so much, I have to get up- is that of little George, his skinny, elongated body shaking as I touch him. What an idea. To lie him on my bed, to run my hands over him, to promise that I would look after him, mate him, he’d be mine forever. It doesn’t even cross my mind for a second that he is a Beta. He’d love being my Omega- at least, the George in my mind would. He’d strive for the possessiveness of it. I’d kiss him everywhere to let him know that no one else can have him. No one but me.

I sit up, aching. I need a shower. The warm stream of water gushing at me and into the bath tub will surely mask my noises if I touch myself. And I need to, judging by the prodding feeling on my stomach. Something is telling me to give it some attention.

I turn around to check if George is awake and I am greeted with the sight of an empty bed. Where would have he gone to? It’s 7 in the morning. Who gets up at that time? Still, I don’t complain much. Though I miss my friend, it’s better that he’s not here, not while I’m in this state. I hate to think how else it would have played out. Me, getting up, trying to hide how turned on I am, trying to conceal my knot. I wonder if George has ever seen a knot before. I doubt it. I don’t usually walk around impossibly turned on and, recently, John will not remove an inch of clothing around us. I’m not sure if George has ever been exposed to Alphas or Omegas before knowingly.

When he was a kid, he hung around with Paul. I remember him telling us that he was an Omega and George said that he had no idea what that was. What a bloody awkward moment. But I was surprised. John said that, when they were young, they used to circle jerk- you know, touch themselves in a huge group of friends, crying out names of attractive women to keep them going- and when he met Paul, he said they used to do it too. It’s a hard thing to hide, if you ask me. Then again, I doubt, as teens, you would have a good look at your friend’s… you know what’s. Oh, I don’t know. I think I just want to believe that George is anything but a Beta. He seems so Alpha, though, so even if he were not a Beta, there’d be such a slim chance of us getting together.

I undress as the shower sprays cold water, slowly heating up. I look at myself in the mirror. Despite the mess of bed hair and sleep in my eyes, I look alright. I comb out my mop top with my fingers, then feel the water to see if it’s hot enough to get in. The steaming water bounces off me, runs down my already hot skin. I needed this. I needed something warm. A body next to me would have done it, someone to hug and love. But this does just as nicely, coupled with my hand around myself, tugging me to release. Yes, that’ll do for now. I’ll feel the need to mate again soon, but it’ll keep the ache off for a bit.

As I’m shampooing my hair with the generic smelling, translucent lotion provided by the hotel, I hear the main door open and shut. I gently turn the knob to ease up on the water, making it quieter and I call out, “George, is that you?”

“Yeah, sorry. Went to see if the other two were up, you were asleep when I woke up.”

“I was out like a light,” George is just by the door. I see the slip of light between the door and its frame be blocked by his body, “I’ll be out in a minute if you need to be in here.”

“No, I already have, don’t worry. I showered while you were asleep.”

It didn’t seem like he had. I mean, the place was completely dry when I came in, I am sure. Still, my memory is not as fantastic as I think it is, “Ok. I’m almost done anyway,”

A small ‘ok’ is called back, which commences our conversation through the walls. I wash the suds out of my hair and off my body and step out of the shower into a white towel which I tie around my waist. Though I worry about walking outside pretty much naked in case the side of sweet George sets me off, I have no choice. I swing the toilet door wide open and step onto the dark bedroom carpet.

George is sitting on his newly made bed, dressed in a pair of black suit trousers and a black turtle neck. He has laid out a blazer to go on top of his little get up. He has white socks on, no shoes. He looks very tall, very tall and thin as his legs stretch off the bed, he pushes himself up on his heels, perching on the very edge of the sofa.

“Alright, Richie?” He says fondly.

“Yeah, all good. I thought you’d left me when I woke up.” I joke.

He laughs a little, but is distracted by something. He’s picking at his sleeves. There aren’t any cufflinks on them, there is barely a substantial hem to adjust. He seems almost nervous.

“Are you ok?”

He looks up with wide, doe-in-the-headlights eyes, “I’m fine.” You’re not fine, you liar. Not that you’d tell me anything.

I walk around to my bed, open my suitcase and start dressing. I pick a white button up, but only bother doing the first five or so buttons. On my bottom half, I pull on some smart pair of trousers. I don’t worry much about socks yet, I’ll worry about them when Eppy gives us ten minutes to be downstairs for breakfast.

“Who was awake, then?” I ask since we have nothing else to do. I idly pack away my clothes from yesterday into my suitcase so that everything in here stays clean, “In the other room, was anyone awake?”

George sits further onto the mattress with one of his long legs bent beside him, “Yeah. Both of them. But they were in bed together. Awkward.” We exchange a knowing, amused look.

Then the phone rings. Eppy’s voice shoots down it with exact orders. “Get up, get ready, downstairs for breakfast. We need to be out of here soon.”

 


	10. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a shit chapter. I was trying to write it while my sister was watching something about Noel Fielding. That's a bit distracting.

I wake up to John playing with my hair. He runs his fingers through it, twirls a few strands around his index digit, lets it unfold, then starts again. It’s soothing. I could fall back to sleep with him doing that had he not seen my eyelids flutter open.

“Morning, luv.” He whispers.

“Hello.” The room is still quite dark. It’s a reasonably dark room complete with drawn blackout curtains, so its gentle for my eyes to adjust to. “What’s the time?”

“Too early.”

“Then why are you awake?”

“I just had to go and piss. I was going to get back to sleep. Christ, can a man not go to the toilet without being questioned?”

I nuzzle into his chest, “Wasn’t questioning your toilet habits.” I mutter.

He’s lying on his back with me sort of lying half on top of him. My head rests beside his neck, feeling every breath as a rise and fall of his chest at a very mellow pace. My right leg hooks over his and weaves under the furthest one from me. I wish we could stay like this on every down day we’ve ever had and will have again. We may have to get up today, but I feel in no such hurry to do so. Eppy may not like that, but I don’t have a thought to him at the moment.

It seems John does not have a thought to anyone but me this morning, as he moves his hand from my hair and runs it down my back, right beside my spine. After some reshuffling, he manages to grab my butt, hard, possessively, as though putting his nail indents in it acts as a mark that I am his. I gasp and rub against him.

“Are you tired?” He queries. I know what he is thinking.

“Sort of.” I tease, “Why?”

He moves his head so his lips are directly behind my ear, “Because I want you.”

I audibly gasp then reply “Ok.” shakily. He makes some space between us, laying on his side and making me do the same. He then takes me in his hand, takes himself in the other and replicates the same movements in both of them. I’m thrusting into his fist, desperately. He doesn’t take his time this morning. We don’t know how long we have, I guess. Someone will come and get us soon enough and he doesn’t want to be caught without release. He does slowly build up the pace, but not so slow for it to be painfully good, that sweet torture of gently teasing.

“John!” I yell as he shuffles up closer to me, then takes us both in one hand. The feeling of our two members in contact has me muffling obscenities into the pillow, “Fuck me… Fuck me… Christ, please John!”

“Don’t you tell me what to do.” He laughs before he crushes our lips together. He reciprocates last night’s appreciation of his body on me, kissing whatever he can reach, licking to get to the next destination worth applying some attention to, biting fleshy, meaty areas that are pleasant to have his teeth clamped around.

He bites my shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. I check if it’s concealable, as Eppy would really have a go at us if it wasn’t. If it was on my neck, he’d have a fit. John would love it, though. Everyone seeing that Paul McCartney gets love bites. He’d see the tabloids print pictures where I’d accidently let everyone see. He’d make scrapbooks of the clippings. He’d be so proud that everyone knew that I got bitten, even though no one knew by who.

Suddenly, John stops, he sits up a bit, moving the covers up to his neck. I’m in a desperate panic when his touch is gone, his wet mouth removed from my chest. I peer over the duvet now stretched over us both. There was a knock at the door. There is another when neither of us reply quick enough.

“It’s quarter to bloody 7, what do you what?” John yells. I join him, sat up with the pillows behind our backs.

A small, familiar voice comes from outside, “It’s George. Paul, could you come out a second?”

“What the fuck, George. Why can’t you come in?” John shouts back, readying himself to get up and let the youngest band member in, but I stop him, countering, “Hold on George. Lemme get something on.”

I run into the bathroom where a fuzzy white robe hangs on the towel rack. I pull it on, then hop to the door. Thank God John didn’t take it upon himself to open the door as, instantly, the smell of an Omega in heat floods in. John is too far away to smell it.

George stands outside clad only in a towel from the waist down while, in one hand, he holds some clothes bundled up. He looks jittery and uncomfortable as he shifts from one foot to the other. He’s in a real state. That’s what years of heat suppressants will do, I guess.

“Can I have that wash, please?” His voice is lower than usual.

“Oh, yeah.” I jump to my wash bag and fish it out, hiding it from John, “Do you want to shower in here so that Ringo doesn’t wake up?”

George peers over my shoulder to see John looking confused. He flashes a vampire teeth grin at him, but I look back and John is not convinced with George’s act.

George hides the wash under his towel. It has a sort of hook handle that he hangs onto the edge of the towel being used as his waistband. “Won’t he…” He gestures at John with a shake of his head, “… be able to… tell?”

“If you’re quick, I’m sure it’ll be ok.”

He considers it for a moment, standing there, looking almost as though he really needs to pee. The desperation in his eyes would make any Alpha’s rut come early should they see him and, while that would be a great way to get John all hot and bothered- because I feel as though I’ve been waiting ages for him to go on his rut properly- I’m meant to be helping my friend, not using him.

He ends up nodding his head, then, once I’ve stepped aside, he runs into the bathroom, skidding on the tiled floor. The smell does not linger in the air long, so John doesn’t smell anything. He doesn’t even question his friend’s erratic behaviour. He jokes about George being high. In fact, he happens to be the very opposite. It’s the lack of those infernal heat suppressants that’s making him like this. He needs Ringo. If only they weren’t so bloody afraid to admit their feelings, or at least succumb to their urges (I mean, it would be perfect if they were both so turned on that one of them just takes a chance) he wouldn’t be in this predicament. An awkward one to be in when we have a concert today.

Like I said, he _needs_ Ringo.

“Why is he showering in here?” John asks, a little grumpy because we can’t fool around with George just in the next room. We’re cuddling in bed, trying not to touch each other. Before, when George first went in and I got back underneath the duvet, we were whispering dirty thoughts to each other, but that proved too hot, so John groaned in frustration and tried to distract himself. I’m burning for him at the moment. I think it’s seeing George in heat. It’s put me in the mood too. And I was already in the mood to begin with.

“Ringo is already in the shower in their room. He knew we wouldn’t be up yet, so he thought he’d come in here.” I lie. I’m a fast liar, as it would seem. Not a very convincing one, there are a million questions it raises, but John can see no other logical conclusion to why our friend would avoid showering in the other bathroom, so he doesn’t continue the line of inquiry. He slides down to rest his head on a pillow rather than on the hard headboard of the bed. We stay silent for much of the time that George is here. When he emerges, he looks a little nervous, but is fully dressed and striding about the place. He even dares walk close to the bed.

“What time is it?” He tries to see the clock beside us.

“Ten past. Ringo won’t be up, right?” I reply.

“No, I don’t think so. Everything is fine, right?”

I know what he means. John is staring at me intensely to see my reply, because he hates being left out of the loop. I ignore him as I say, “Yep. Everything is fine.”

This time, when George smiles, it looks normal, genuine. He winks at us, then heads back to his room.

John opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I look up at him and smile. He is confused about George, catching on that something isn’t right, but I’m not going to be the one to clue him in. I press a kiss on his beautiful lips, tasting him once again. I would have his taste in my mouth all day if I could, but it feels so much better to have the smooth texture of his lips against mine.

Huh, the things I think of! Trust me know, no one should ever have to wade through the shit in my mind.

“Right. Shall we get on with it?”

In an instant, we’re horny teenagers grasping, dragging, fucking each other. John sits on top of me this time, forcing his weight on me. It’s delicious. Not only do I have pleasure building up below my stomach, but it also has to build against the weight of another body. You’d get it if you like to bottom, I guess. Fuck, it’s amazing…

…ruined by the phone ringing. It’s by the alarm clock, vibrating to let us know that someone is calling us, we’re not being woken up by an irritating buzz probably set by Eppy earlier.

Actually, Eppy doesn’t go to all the trouble of setting an alarm to wake us up. He is the alarm. He phones us up, John takes the receiver and relays to me the orders that Eppy tells him, but he does it in a mocking voice, just to get on Eppy’s tits.

“Get up, get ready, downstairs for breakfast. We need to be out of here soon. And John”

“Yes Bri?”

“Fuck off.”


	11. John

All around a very comfortable table in what becomes the bar after 7pm, we chatter like old dears over eggs and full englishs, sipping juice or water, while Eppy eyes the time. He breaks our conversation a few times to give as an update.

“20 minutes, that’s all.” He warned us at the start. Then we get 5 minute updates, like an alarm clock you put on snooze again and again instead of just turning it off.

“10 minutes, boys. We need to be out of here.” He persists. At this point, I’ve lost my bloody appetite because he’s hurrying me to shovel down piles of greasy breakfast. I feel disgustingly bloated.

“You know what, Eppy, luv,” I pipe up in the nicest possible voice I can muster, “I know you’re just trying to help us and all, but will you please shut the fuck up!” I shout too loud and Paul slaps me on the arm. Other guests are staring at me as though I am the most appalling thing they’d ever seen. I fancy standing up on the table and yelling at the very top of my lungs ‘that’s right, you upper class prats, you heard me swear. You go and tell your fucking rebellious kids not to love the Beatles because John fucking Lennon is like every other teenager. He swears!’

The look on their faces would be priceless.

Still, I duck my head and down a piece of egg and toast into my mouth. That way, I can’t say anything else out of turn.

But I’ve always had the suspicion that Eppy is an Omega, so how he thinks he can order me around as though I were subordinate to him, I’ve no idea. Perhaps I have an old-fashioned look on these biological groups, but let’s be honest I’ve got the bigger dick. If that doesn’t say it all, what will.

Yeah, Eppy’s the type to be an Omega. Motherly, you know. Just look at the way he treats us, telling us we have five minutes as he passes Ringo the plate of charcoaled toast. I’m surprised he’s not wiping the crumb of hash brown on George’s top lip. It’s been there practically since he started eating. Does Eppy not have the urge to spit on a rag and give George a good scrubbing like a naughty boy whose been playing out in the mud for too long. He even comments on what we are wearing.

“I thought I told you to try and wear something similar today. The nice collarless suits. You did all pack them, didn’t you?”

Yes, Eppy. I packed that. However, I did not pack my pyjamas. I still hit myself about that.

“Yeah, but we could change when we’re at the venue.” Paul suggests. It seems to bug Eppy as he complains about how they’re going to get the suits to the venue without ruining them. That’s before he sees the time and has a hissy fit about the fact that we were meant to leave two minutes ago.

I could see him as an Omega. I bet he takes those heat suppressants because he hates being all desperate. He would not be seen as out of control for a single moment, now would he. He probably hasn’t been in heat for ages. I wonder what that’s like. I’ve never tried to prevent my rut, not once. Never even thought about it. I heard that it gets worse if you’ve been taking heat suppressants for a while, that it all kind of builds up. I guess its best that I don’t take them, else, the time that I forget will be a hellish mess of me humping everything, everything that moves. I’ll be begging on my knees to allow anyone to let me inside them. Paul would love it, of course.

As we get up to leave, I notice that George is squirming around like anything.

“You alright, mate? Ants in yeh pants or something?”

George whimpers a little, but plays as though it never happens when I don’t react to it, “I’m alright.” I then notice a look shared between him and Paul. I noticed one earlier too. The whole interaction this morning was very off. I want to ask about it, I would if we weren’t being herded off by sheep-dog Eppy. He walks behind us and, with a sweeping motion, moves us towards the door. Ringo steals the last slice of toast while I sip one last drop of orange juice. We couldn’t just leave without the last laugh.

We all file into a car, Eppy in the front passenger seat, and wait until we’re paraded around the next place. We have interviews now, a lunch already booked some place where we won’t get attacked by fans, then a concert to set up to cap off a very busy day. I may feel like shit after all that food, but I’ sure I’ll work it off

George sits next to me and, fuck, he doesn’t stop moving. His thighs squeeze together in time with the movement of the car. His hands rub each other raw. Paul keeps shooting concerned looks at him. What the hell is up with that boy?

I have to pull him aside when we finally get out the car. We’re at one studio or another, a TV studio. The walls are all painted a very pale, dull shade of blue while the floors are all carpeted grey. We are offered food, drinks, a toilet break which I gladly take and are told that they’ll call us when the interviews will start. They want us all separately, in different rooms, with different reporters. How fun… At least if we were in a group, we could mess around with each other. On our own, it really depends on the reporter, whether they’ll join in the fun or not.

It’s during my hopping off to the toilet when I take my chance to ask if George is alright. He doesn’t convince me the way he hurries into a cubical and takes ages to emerge, red-cheeked and hood-eyed.

“Hey, don’t lie to me. You look like shit, what’s wrong with you?”

“Thanks John,” He spits, running his hands under the tap, “I really need to be told how shit I’m looking when I’m about to walk into a fucking interview.” He sounds way more bitter than I’m used to with George. Yes, he has a mean streak, but it’s a sneaky one. It’s an indirect insult type mean streak. Not swear in your face one.

“You act like it’s a job interview or something, son. It’s not, you know.”

“Because this isn’t out job, is it?”

Oh, fucking little snarky bitch. Roll my eyes, “Whatever Mr ‘I always take things deadly seriously’ Harrison. Have fun in your interview.”

You don’t want a concerned friend, you don’t get one. I storm out into the room that we’re being coped up in. Paul and Ringo are sitting beside one another giggling. Eppy is looking at his watch, then at the huge clock in the room. I bet he’s wondering which is right. I join my two bandmates.

“Something’s up with George.” I break the conversation to say. Ringo’s face immediately becomes what mine was two minutes ago. Paul instantly tries to look normal. I know he knows something.

“He woke up on the wrong side of the bed or something.” Paul suggests, flippantly.

I narrow my eyes at him.

“Now that you mention it, John, he was a bit uncomfortable last night.” Ringo adds.

“Sick, perhaps.”

I continue to stare at Paul. What is it he’s hiding from me? I’ll find out.

George reappears and Ringo goes to talk to him, like a good, kind friend. He doesn’t shout at Ringo, now does he. The bloody ungrateful little arsehole. I try to be a good friend and I get dismissed. Now I want to know more than ever why he’s being such a dick to me.

“Tell me.” I insist to Paul.

“Tell you?”

“Play dumb with me again, Paul, I dare you.”

“Look, he’s not feeling well. I gave him a pill this morning. That’s all. You know how he gets when he’s sick. You remember ‘Don’t bother me’”

It was a song George wrote when he was sick. The lyrics went:

_So go away and leave me alone, don't bother me_

George was not at all friendly when sick. I still say something is up, I want to ask more, yet the man who comes in foils my plan by telling us it’s time. George changes from colour in his cheeks to pale in a chameleonic second.


	12. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I never meant for this to be both my longest fic and most explicit, but I;m really enjoying writing it.  
> So enjoy

My stomach is churning.

Not in a bad way, it’s a nice feeling, the feeling people love to have, the dirty, but addictive feeling. But, for that exact reason, it is not good.

While I feel like I might be sick, I also feel like I might explode every time I see Ringo do anything. When he lights up a cigarette, or when he lights one for me in the TV studio. I take it with a shaking hand. When he licks up a splodge of sauce on his lips at breakfast. When he rolls the rings on his fingers so that the jewels are facing upwards, out of habit.

I must be sweating really bad. I might be sweating the wash off. And I’m probably slick through my underwear. I knew this would happen. Damn Paul listening to John and his fucking stupid ‘heat suppressants are unnatural.’ I was fine before. Paranoid, yes, but fine.

Paul’s been hanging around me since breakfast. I was so turned on that I could barely eat and, if you know me, that’s bad. I love food. I adore food. I adore Ringo… not that I see him as food. Then again, I’d happily take him into my mouth, devour him and let him do the same to me.

My eyes were on him the entire time. I felt myself become slick at the thought of Ringo taking me on that table, with its lacy white breakfast spread they put on so that the bar doesn’t look as bad as it did the night before. In front of all these conservative, rich arseholes who stare whenever we accidently let out even the smallest of teen talk of the age, it would be great to see their faces if they saw us getting it on. Not only would it be two horny teenagers fucking in the middle of their breakfast room, it would be two men! What an outrage!

Paul caught me staring, tapped me on the shoulder with a light, normal giggle and guided my gaze back down to my food. I couldn’t not eat. I wouldn’t have lasted the day if I hadn’t. I took a mouthful of bacon, reluctantly.

It was time to go before I knew it. That, however, was not a good thing at all. I’d been dreading the whole day. Breakfast and this last trip in the car will be my last calm moments, if you can call my demeanour at all calm. Eppy shooed us out of the hotel, but not before John and Ringo took their last bit of food, as though they hadn’t been given plenty of time to eat already. As I followed Paul, I felt tap on my shoulder. John stood behind me, finishing gulping down the last drop of orange juice in his glass.

“You alright, mate? Ants in yeh pants or something?”

I must’ve been moving around a hell of a lot. If I don’t, aching want surges through me. I groaned a little when I had to stop, just to pretend nothing was wrong. I’m sure John didn’t hear it. He doesn’t react to it.

“I’m alright.” I mumble.

John can sometimes be a kind friend. He does try. He’s better with Paul than me or Ringo, but I hand it to him for trying.

When we’re at the TV studio, he tries again. This time, though, I could not even think to give credit where it may be due. We were in the toilets, I hobbled into one of the cubicles to quickly dab some wash on me where ever I could and to have a pee, of course. I was in a state of embarrassment, feeling vulnerable and nervous and preparing to put on a smile for the reporters. When I emerged, however, I was blushing bright red- I caught a look of myself in the mirror.  John had been washing his hands. Once he was finished and I’d come along to do my own, he leant on the surface beside the sink I was using.

“Hey, don’t lie to me. You look like shit, what’s wrong with you?” He said. It was really the wrong time to say something like that and he didn’t say it with enough care for me to take it as anything other than an insult. My temper frays easily.

“Thanks John, I really need to be told how shit I’m looking when I’m about to walk into a fucking interview.” I soaped up my hands nervously, trying not to meet John’s glare.

“You act like it’s a job interview or something, son. It’s not, you know.” He tried to keep it light hearted.

I could not keep myself from snapping, “Because this isn’t out job, is it?”

 “Whatever Mr ‘I always take things deadly seriously’ Harrison. Have fun in your interview.”

He slammed the door as though it were his own. He’s such a child sometimes. In light of his absence, I check myself in the mirror. I don’t look so much like shit. I look like I’ve just woken up, that’s all. My hair is a bit greasy because I’ve been sweating a lot. There’s a distinct bulge in my trousers that I hide with my hands or by crossing my legs. I convince myself that all will be ok.

Back in the waiting room, Ringo, Paul and John are huddled, no doubt talking about me. I know Paul won’t say anything, so I wander off to sit on my own. It’s not strange for me to do so, they know I like my space.

Ringo also seems to know that I don’t mind him so much. He walks over to sit beside me.

“The guys are saying you don’t feel well.” He informs me.

“Yeah… maybe it’s just nerves. I didn’t mean to shout at John... Is he pissed off at me?”

Handing me a lit cigarette, one he lit especially for me, he nods sympathetically. After a drag of his own cig, he reassures that, “He’ll forget soon enough. You know how he is.”

We’re called off a minute later. I grind out my cigarette in the see-through ash tray on a glass coffee table that sits in front of us and glace at the doorway, open for me. I feel sick with anxiousness.


	13. Ringo

My mind is growling at me, in the way that my stomach does to tell me that I’m hungry. In fact, my mind is telling me I’m hungry, just not with the same meaning. As I enter a cosy, barely-decorated room that could be mistaken for a police interrogation room- a bright spotlight, blinds over the windows, it would be the perfect place to film a crime movie- there is a young, brunette reporter dressed in a pale frock, sitting in an arm chair, going over some questions scrawled in her notebook.

She is rather good-looking, to put things mildly. Her hair falls in sheets of perfectly smooth, silk strands, those at the front hugging her heart-shaped chin. Her eyes have a brightness in them that does not come from youth, but from a knowledge of how to look sexy. She narrows them slightly as she smiles upon first seeing me.

“Mr Starr.” She stands up, her elongated body swiftly moving like a swan through water. I mean, all she does is get out of a chair! This interview is going to be difficult to get through. I ignore how wonderfully dainty her precise hand is and how good it feels in my slightly stronger, drummer one when she shakes it, focusing instead on trying to read the handwriting in her notebook upside down in hopes of preparing myself for some of the questions. Formulating answers in my mind will distract it from desperately wanting an Omega.

“Or would you prefer Mr Starkey?”

“Forget last names,” I say lightly, “Call me Ringo.” The girl smiles.

We sit down, me on a matching arm chair at an angle from hers. We’re not being filmed. I guess this is for a paper or something. I didn’t really listen to Eppy in the car when he was telling us this important information. The girl is sleek and cool. She reads out the questions on her paper, adds an explanation of how I should reply, then draws her eyes up over my body until she meets my blue gaze, waiting for my answer.

She giggles softly, not like a child, it’s like she’s privately enjoying a filthy joke, yet tries to be conservative around her parents or something. The way she watches me, scrutinises every expression or movement as I talk, I feel as though she is trying to engrain my face in her memory for later use. I want to tell her that she needs not revise me like that. I would happily accompany her to some secluded area and have her, if that is what she would want.

But she is not an Omega. She doesn’t seem like one at all. And, if she were, should she not be able to tell that I am on rut? Oh, how great it would be if she did. She might send out the couple of studio technicians that have been hanging around us and crawl on her hands and knees to me. She might tease me, ask if I’m alright, if I need anything, because I seem a little distracted. When I tell her why I am not focused, she’d kiss me with those sexy, pink painted lips and let me knot her, right here, right now.

Perhaps I shouldn’t be thinking like that right now. I keep mishearing her questions or getting caught looking at her thinly clothed legs, not that she knows that my attention is on them. She assumes that I’m just zoning out.

“Just woke up?” She asks, placing once slender arm over her notes as though to indicate that we have gone off her plan.

I wonder if that nude, skin-tight fabric hugging her calves is a pair of stockings with suspender belts… “Long day ahead.” I chuckle, “And not much sleep last night.”

Her eyes widen subtly and a smile turns up the corner of her mouth. _What are you thinking?_

Right, I’m not meant to be thinking like that.

The interview ends anticlimactically. I stand up to shake the girl’s hand again, wishing I would tug her towards me into a kiss. However, her grasp on me is stronger than mine on hers. I believe, should I try anything, she could have the capacity to throw quite the punch, if she didn’t want it. 

We both turn to head out the door, but she suddenly spins back, barring my way. My lucky day?

“You still have two other interviews to complete. They’ll be in here soon.”

Nope. Not my lucky day. Very unlucky judging by the slightly older woman with a sharp glare and dressed like a Sunday school teacher that walks in next.

George. I think of George. I wonder how he’s doing, if this is as torturous for him. I’m only on my rut. If he is sick, this is probably hell.

There was one time that Paul had stomach flu. On that day, we had a filmed interview. The poor kid hid behind John and me, trying not to groan as cramps tore his weak stomach to pieces. He did have to turn away at one point so not to throw up everywhere and John was absolutely the most adorable, caring Alpha I have ever seen. Ignoring the reporter who was sprouting a load of banal questions, he turned to Paul and interrupted the annoyingly dull voice droning on by asking how he was. Once Paul had replied and gotten back to the job in hand, John did not stop looking at him as well as shielding the younger man with his body.

I want to be there for George. I bet he’s hating every minute of this. All the colour in his face drained the moment we were called away.

As soon as the interviews are done, my priority is George. I say kind goodbyes, thank yous, all pleasantries, polite-like, just to hurry this guy up. The last interviewer was a man who had tried to dress ‘hip’ for the situation, but ended up looking like a teddy boy well past his years of dressing like a teddy boy. And he doesn’t seem to want me to leave. I etch backwards, a step every time I talk, hoping that the door is still open and I’ll just slip out, gone before he has a chance to stop me.

“Well, I’ll let you go.” He finally says. Trying not to look too relieved, I nod, then shoot out the door.

Not to judge people, but fucking, uncool dad, trying to keep me from my friends.

The rest of the band hangs around in the waiting room that we had been in before. Eppy waits by the door that is across the room from the one I came in from. He’s ready to go, he wants us all to go.

John isn’t so hurried, “Teddy dad?” He asks, apparently having the same thoughts as me.

“Takes forever, doesn’t he?” I affirm, “But that brunette…” I bite my lip overly dramatically.

John laughs loudly. I see Eppy sigh, frustrated that we want to stay and chat.

“You’re on your rut, mate. Looking at all these girls. Keep your dirty mind shut.”

I begin to head towards Eppy. Since I am the last one to come in, I might as well help him get us out. Like sheep, the other boys follow me, John right behind. George hangs back with Paul, sipping some water from a plastic cup.

ad“Yeah, I’m on my rut.” I almost whine, “I’d happy take that chick, the brunette.”

“Boys…” Eppy warns.

“Oh, come off it, Bri.” John backs me up.

I grin. I can’t help having a bit of a rebellious mind at the moment. I want an Omega, I’ll make all the comments I like about them. “Take her over me knee, or something. You got that vibe from her too, right?” John nods, enthusiastically “She seemed really naughty.” I say in a mocking voice moments before the sound of water being spat everywhere comes from behind me. It sounded as though George had been sick but it was just water.

“Sorry… Sorry.” He hurriedly mutters, “Went down the wrong way.”


	14. George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have a thing for Ringo's fingers... and his rings  
> And John's thighs  
> And Paul's lips  
> And George's slender body.  
> I just thought it needed to be said.   
> Just if no one gathered this from the other chapters.

I mean, it wasn’t so bad. Three interviews, one nice piece of eye candy. I did hate sitting in one place the whole time. I was jumpy and fidgety and kept having to remember to cover my crotch with my hands. It would’ve been alright had I not had to keep my balled-up fists resting on my lap, because I could idly play with my fingers, smooth over the rough skin on the tips from holding down the strings on my guitar. Still, that was not possible. I was left trying to keep as immobile as I could, made even more difficult by the seductive chick who batted her long eyelashes at me when I didn’t answer quick enough for her.

I’m definitely thankful to be away from that tiny room, the one where the interview was carried out. They couldn’t have made it more like a prison cell if they’d put an unfurnished bed in the corner and a metal toilet basin opposite. How were we meant to pay attention to the reporters if we were half falling asleep in the chairs? Well, I wasn’t falling asleep. I was trying not to rock my hips to get some friction down below. That would’ve been an odd scene.

John is the first one back. He gives me a dirty look that doesn’t last. We end up talking about the young, girl reporter because, it may be bloody difficult for me not to be impossibly turned on when it came to anything remotely sexual, but it kept me in John’s good books. Perhaps now he won’t ask so many questions.

Paul is next to walk in, a grin on his face like anything. He sees me talking to John and smiles even wider. He’s obviously glad that we’re both getting along and I’m doing ok. I’m doing the best I can given the circumstances. Constantly, I feel slick wet my underwear, I feel as though I have a fever.

“You doing ok?” Paul asks, looking at both of us, but directing it to me.

“Fine.” I whisper under John’s “Great.”

John is just about to speak again, his mouth left hanging with all the air in his lungs ready to talk, but Eppy steals the words.

“When Ringo gets back, straight into the car, ok boys?”

We all nod. I head to the water fountain to get a cup of water. It stands, sloshing in the corner. Every step close to it, it vibrates, waves falling over each other, waiting to be poured out. I place a small plastic cut beneath the nozzle and watch it fill up, the rest of the water forming a whirlpool that gulps, gulps, gulps in the outside air.

I down the first cup like it’s a shot. I’d really like a drink right now. It might take the edge off. Perhaps give me some kind of confidence. I might even be able to tell Ringo how I feel. That I want him. That I’m in heat, he’s on his rut. That it makes sense.

Then again, alcohol, probably not my best idea. Not when I’m so turned on that I cannot stand still. If I get even a bit tipsy, I won’t be able to stand, never mind be still. And then there will be the problem of control. If I have no control over myself, who knows what I’d do. I might give in to that urge every time John gets close, to just rub up against him as though I were a dog humping his owner’s legs. I might snog Paul on those lips of his. I might attack Ringo- in a good way… if there is such thing. He’s on his rut, I doubt he’d turn me down should I jump on him.

I hear a door open and someone’s heels click in. It’s Ringo, the heels being the shining dress shoes he’s wearing. He’s immediately ambushed by John talking about the reporters, specifically the brunette chick. Ringo seems into her. I attempt a smile at him when his eyes seek me out amongst the other boys. I even manage a small nod. The girl was good-looking, we all agree on that.

I stumble over to stand beside Paul. He acts like my crutch, holding me up, because he’s the only one who understands me right now. He sends a sympathetic glance my way when John suddenly brings up Ringo’s rut.

Ringo doesn’t deny being on it. He’s so confident. He couldn’t care less if anyone saw him as a horny bastard. He’s just tell them straight, ‘yes, I am. How observant.’

He starts following Eppy’s irritated and unsettled glare that darts from us to out the door. John follows him and I follow Paul. I’m burying my nose in the cold, mini ecosystem in the top of my plastic cup. The icy water produces a soft breeze that cools my face. I sip a little more of it

. “Take her over me knee, or something. You got that vibe from her too, right?” Ringo continues about this girl. I find myself unable to swallow. A surge of pleasure runs through me as I walk. My legs almost buckle, but they don’t. All that happens that is significant is after Ringo saying, “She seemed really naughty,” in probably the sexiest voice I have ever heard him make. Yes, he was mocking being sexy, but even as a joke… fuck. He sounds like he’s messing around with an Omega, trying roleplay. Not serious roleplay, but joking, fun roleplay with awful, cheesy lines.

Before I can stop myself, water shoots out my lips. I manage to miss Paul completely, instead spraying the floor and doorway. The four men in front of me, turn and there I am, coughing and spluttering while trying to hide my crotch by being doubled over.

“Sorry…” I stammer between gasps, “Sorry… Went down the wrong way.”

Paul helps me up, as well as moving me out the way so a cleaner can get past. He also moves everyone forward, up and out the front door, so that we’re not clogging the corridor. This Tv studio has the tiniest hallways I’ve ever seen. Only around one person can walk properly through them without touching someone else. Granted that’s probably because of the winding labyrinth of rooms they need to have, but still, do they never need more than one person walking in them at a time? I don’t think so.

Outside, we file towards the car. Ringo keeps trying to look back at me, but Eppy yells at him for not hurrying up. Being the person in front, Eppy takes where Ringo is walking to be where everyone else should be walking. If he falls behind, we are all surely much further.

Paul drags back then darts beside me, “Was it what he said?”

I feel my cheeks burn red, “uh hu. I don’t think this is working, Paul. I need those pills.”

“No.” He insists, “Or else you’ll never get off them because every heat will build up and it’ll just be worse, ok? You need Ringo, I’m telling you.” He sounds so hushed, yet I’m convinced Ringo would be able to hear, so I hunch up and look away.

“Yeah, so what? I can’t get him right now. We have a concert to do.” I pick up my walking speed. Paul matches it, but doesn’t continue perusing the conversation. He just looks at me with sympathetic eyes again.

The car ride is quick this time. In and out and across a concrete park to a music hall that usually houses orchestras, not four rock and roll musicians. The place is very… golden. Everything has a warm, sparkling orange or rich, yellow hue. Even the cushioned seats in that will be filled with our audience of many a screaming girl, fainting at the sight of their favourite band, have gold paint dancing in patterns down the backs or over the cylinder arm rests.

The stage is being set up for us. Ringo’s drums take centre, the Beatles logo ready to steal all of the attention away from whatever else gets to perform in here. For so many fans, they’ll know it as one of the places where the Beatles played. For their parents, they’ll know it as another place the Beatles are taking over. Just another place Beatlemania plans to overthrow their music with.

My guitar, Paul’s bass, John’s rhythm guitar and mouth organ, they’re all set up there too. They’re set up in exactly the places we will end up standing, me and Paul over to the left (or if you’re on stage looking out, over to the right) with Ringo in the middle of us and John, but behind. Also, tall, sleek microphones stand waiting, one to the left (or right, I don’t know!) and one to the…

…the other side.

It’s quite the place. I can’t wait to see the seats all filled up.

Well, my stomach tells me differently. It doesn’t hurt, it feels good. It burns with want. I’d almost forgotten I’m in heat. The idea of performing usually does that. I get so excited, I forget everything.

Unfortunately, it’s the getting excited thing that floors me. Slick is seeping everywhere; the inners of my thighs are thick with it. I really wonder if I’m wet through my underwear yet, if it’s become a patch on the back of my trousers. Shit!

“Eppy!” I call in a panic, perhaps a little too loud. My voice echoes around the room. Then again, every sound can be heard from everywhere, it’s that echo-y. I jog up to join Eppy a few steps in front of me. I am constantly conscious of my butt now, wondering if the others can see how wet I am. They don’t react, but I doubt they would. They’d pull me aside and tell me later, but not before I’ve accidently paraded in front of everyone like this. I tell myself that talking to Eppy is more important than worrying right now. “Are we going to change? Did you bring out suits down?”

With a roll of his eyes that tells me ‘why must I always be a mother to you lot’ he says, “Yes, I did,” In a soft, kind voice, “But you can do a sound check and practice first then get changed. You have to look perfect for tonight, ok?”

Ok… ok. I’ll just ask Paul if I’m wet through when I get a chance. If I’m not, I’ll nip to the toilet and deal with the feeling of being so wet. I might even deal with the obnoxious hard on that will not cease. I’ve done well to hide it thus far, I’ll do well to hide it later, especially behind the guitar. That’ll be the easiest… right? I don’t even care at the moment that ‘dealing’ with that situation will make it more difficult later. I’m absolutely aching. I need it right now. I’ll put my mind to later when I cross that bridge.

I have the same attitude to the possibility of having leaked slick through my trousers. Cross that bridge when I come to it.

The next rest we get is in the dressing rooms around the back of the stage. Eppy lets one of the technicians take us there. He tells us to be ready to practice in 10 minutes. He gets the usual sass from John, which he ignores as ever.

There are four dressing rooms where our suits have been hung and a slightly bigger ‘common’ area that the four of us take to, seeing as we don’t have to change just get. In there, snack-y foods are presented on a table at the back. John darts to it. I realise it’s been several hours since we last ate. I am not hungry. I, instead, take up three armless chairs that are all lined up against a wall by lying down with my legs bent over the last one. There is a sofa right in the middle of the room that I could lie on, but I like the hardness of the chairs.

I want to close my eyes, but every time I do, I see Ringo. I see him kissing me, touching me. I shouldn’t be seeing that. I stare at the ceiling.

After studying the cobwebs in the corners and patches of discoloured paint, my line of sight is blocked by Paul, grinning down at me. Without a word, I sit up and make space for him, remembering that I was meant to ask him something.

“Feeling ok?”

“Feeling fine.” I reply hastily, “Look, I’m going to stand up in a minute. Could you check if you can see…”

He doesn’t need me to finish. He cuts in straight away, “Sure.” Then encourages me up. I walk over to the food table and scrutinise the picky bits and pieces once placed out in some kind of order, but have now been messed by John and Ringo’s clumsy fingers.

“They sure know how to treat us.” Ringo says with a smile on his lips. I smile back. How is he not smelling me? This wash must be powerful stuff. I even though I caught the intoxicating smell of myself once or twice, but it seems not. Perhaps it’s my own fears.

“They do.” I reply, adding, “What’s nicest?” He’s already tried almost one of everything. He grins and picks up something that looks like paste atop a cracker.

“I like this, try it.” He offers. He goes to place it in my hand, but as a joke, and perhaps impaired judgement, I open my mouth, tongue protruding, head tipped back. I watch him laugh at me for a second. He has no idea how hot this will be if he feeds it to me. I feel John and Paul’s eyes on me the entire time Ringo’s considering it.

Then he moves his hand up slowly. I taste the bland cracker on my tongue first, followed by a salty flavour right on the tip. The realisation seeps into my brain, my nerve endings going crazy.

I just licked Ringo’s fingers.

It may have been an accident, he may not think anything off it, he may be giggling like it never happened, but it happened. I felt it, I tasted it, I’m addicted. The strange paste that he fed me tastes of nothing compared to his skin. I sound like a maniac. I don’t even care.

Taking a long, deep breath, I swallow the food and mutter something like ‘It tastes good’ to make Ringo smile. I don’t know if he has any idea that I’m talking about him, not the stuff he fed me. I then have to run back to Paul, who assures me that there isn’t a wet patch on my arse before I tug him off to the toilet. I can’t be in this room anymore. I will come, right here, right now, in front of my three best friends, moaning Ringo’s name without a thought to the fact that he’s in here, clueless to my feelings.


	15. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eh, this chapter is a bit shit.   
> I was watching taskmaster when I wrote it. A bit distracting

We don’t even know which way the toilets are. George just needs to get out. He also needs to clean up. He whispered to me as we got out of the main dressing room that he almost came when Ringo’s fingers touched his tongue. I get it. I love sucking John’s fingers. But then, I just like sucking any part of John I can get my mouth around.

“What am I going to do?” George asks as he checks another door down this hallway and it proves not to be a bathroom.

“Luv, you just need to either pull it together and tell Ringo or pull it together, do the rehearsal without slicking up your trousers and have a…” a girl walks by us so I hush up and censor my words, “…a play before we go to do the concert. It should hold you for the whole time.” It might. It might not. I just think he needs to do something with himself. He’s so hard, he can’t hide it at the moment and he doesn’t even try.

Finally, we find a bathroom and George heads into one of the stalls. I wait outside. Should this be awkward? It doesn’t feel like it is, but it feels like, if you look from afar, it should be. I’m standing outside while one of my friends is cleaning himself up from being too turned on.

And I know about it. He knows that I know about it. He’s confiding in me. I don’t know. This just doesn’t seem entirely the most normal thing to do with friends.

But a thing to do _for_ friends… I’d all and everything up to getting on my knees and fucking him myself to help him out. If that means waiting for him until he’s all cleaned up, I’m ok with that.

He comes out, head hung, stiff everywhere. When he gets next to me, in front of the sinks, he turns on the tap and splashes his face with cold water.

“Fuck!”

“George, don’t you love this feeling, though? Would you really want to have heat suppressants again? Really? Doesn’t it feel fucking amazing?” I’m not joking. I love going into heat. It’s awkward, it makes you vulnerable and humiliated, but fuck does it feel so good. He’ll like it more when he has someone, when he had Ringo, picking him up and slamming him against the wall, driving deep inside him until all that tension if released.

Again and again and again.

It’s a feeling unlike anything I can put into words. Nothing I could put into a song. All of those cheesy lines I could sing could not scratch the surface of what it is like for three or four days, most of which spent in a bed wrapped up in your Alpha’s warmth.

I believe it is due to George not having that particular experience that makes him glare at me.

“I feel like shit, Paul. It would be great if I didn’t have to do so much today. Seriously, I’d love to be at home, in my room, touching myself again and again… thinking of Ringo…” He zones out for a second, then snaps back, realising that was probably too much information, “But I’m here, having to do a show. And I’d love to tell Ringo that I want him, now, but I can’t see how that will help.”

“He’s on his rut, you know.” I point out, “He’s probably aching for you as much as you are him.”

Though I could’ve just been making a connection between the two because they are in similar predicaments, George sees through my nonchalant tone to grasp my knowledge of something. I think it was because it was too easy to slip out, the idea of Ringo liking him back, as though it were a fact, something we all knew. I try to keep it calm, pretending it was merely a slip of the tongue as George’s eyes snap straight onto mine, wide and desperate.

“What?”

“Ringo might like you too,” I shrug my shoulders, “You don’t know unless you ask.” Keep it cool. Keep it cool.

“Do you know?”

Shaking my head, I look away. I am the fucking worst at lying. I may be a quick one, but I’m the worst, “How should I know? He’s an Alpha in rut! He could be game for anyone.” I’m almost screaming. Fuck! I tone it down, open my mouth and calmly say, “We need to get back before someone thinks we’ve gone off to fuck.”

George looks at me as I begin to walk to the door, but doesn’t follow. Instead, he whines. “Ok, I really need to just… take care of this. Make an excuse for me.”

His eyes are liquid dark. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so out of control. He’s leaning on the sinks, arms stretched to their fullest, they almost look like they’re bending inwards. One leg is bent, crossed at the ankles over the other.

There’s not much more I can do. I smile knowingly and promise, “I’ll make sure it’s not something about puking up.” Which garners a small chuckle from his throat. I then leave him, wondering how the fuck to get back to the dressing rooms.

“Where’s George?” Is Ringo’s first question when I wander into the room. John is sitting, sunk into the pillows on the sofa. He doesn’t look at me, not when I first walk in, not even when I talk. Does he really think I went off to cheat on him with George? His expression makes me assume I’ve done something wrong.

“In the toilet. He thought he was going to be sick or something. But he’s alright. He’ll be out soon.” I say. Vague always works.

Ringo nods and takes up seat on one of the three chairs where George had been lying down for a while. He sits there for a little while, we all do, waiting for George, waiting for our ten minutes to be up, but I think Eppy has either forgotten about us or there’s been a problem with setting up and the practice has been pushed back. We’re all pretty silent for a long time, before I meet Ringo’s gaze and he giggles.

“Fuck!” He exclaims, much like how George had before, with desperation, but a few more giggles.

“What’s up Ritchie?” John asks, sounding a little flippant.

“I really need a fucking Omega, mate. Really need one.”

Well… You need George, I want to tell him. You need George. He needs you. For fuck sake. These boys are impossible! I want to be fair, to tell myself that I never would have told John that I like him had he not made the first move, but it’s so frustrating. I clench my fists, my teeth too, so to stop myself from saying anything.

It doesn’t work, “Any Omega? Or a female?” I take a long pause, “Or a male one?”

He gives me a strange look, I’m not sure what to make of it. But I don’t need to make anything of it, because he answers, slowly, quietly, a small voice in an empty room.

“I don’t mind, really.” He glances at the floor, “I’ve never been with a man before…”

“What about George?” John spits. He’s obviously not happy again. Do I really have to deal with mood swings and unrequited love? Neither of which is actually coming from me. It affects me, but I’m not actually undergoing either of these myself. I sigh, out loud, obviously at these two.

“John!” Ringo hisses.

I roll my eyes. Is there any other way to convey my annoyance? I glare at the two, “I know, Ringo. I know you like George.”


	16. Ringo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there, folks.

“John!” What the hell is wrong with him? I try not to look too pissed off, but I can’t stop myself from warning him under my breath. He doesn’t meet my gaze, hanging his head and pretending to play with the fabric of his trousers.

John just randomly started being grumpy. After Paul and George had pranced out of the room, George excusing himself to the toilet, John glanced down at the food on the table where we both were standing over, shovelling piles of prissy crackers topped with dull coloured pâté into our mouths, and plodded away to sit on the sofa. He slumped amongst the pillows staring at the opposite wall.

I thought that there was something about George and Paul that was bothering him. I mean, he stormed off right after they left. I put down a mini sausage roll- the cute ones that you pick up with tooth picks- and perched on the back of the sofa, gazing down at my friend.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing.” He replied all too quickly, with venom dripping from his tongue.

“Is it something about George and Paul?”

He picked his head up to look directly at me, his expression, not angry or defensive, but confused, “No, why?”

“The way they ran off together.” I’d said with a whole heap of caution, I don’t want to put ideas in his mind of Paul being unfaithful. Paul would never do that to him. “Then you sat down. You’re obviously pissed off.”

“Oh, no. It’s not them.” He said casually, “They want to have some kind of conspiracy, they can have it. I just feel like shit.”

If you feel like shit, keep it to yourself. Don’t ruin my mood by outing me as liking my best mate. I’m so ready to shout at him, profanity lingering behind my lips, threating to explode in on incoherent burst. I really want to, but if I do, I can’t really deny it, the whole crush on George thing. The moment I get defensive is the second I can’t deny it.

But I guess I don’t need to. Paul shoots me an almost dirty look and sighs, “I know, Ringo. I know you like George.”

Oh, this was John. I could kill him right now, had he not been far bigger than me, and more violent. Do I risk a slug in the mouth, just to perhaps dent his sullen face? No, I don’t, because I’m too stunned to make any kind of move. I can’t even talk. Sentences don’t connect from my brain to my mouth. All the muscles in my entire body fail to respond to my mind, if that is even functioning properly.

We all stay silent, unsure of what to say -or, in John’s case, is too caught up in his own problems to give a shit- until Eppy hurries in.

“Boys, a couple of problems out here. You can come and practice or give us another ten minutes to get everything ready. You’re not too bored in here, are you?”

He has no idea. Not bored as such. Embarrassed, humiliated, frustrated… whatever the fuck’s going on with John over there.

“No, Eppy.” Paul responds in seeing that neither John nor I was going to, “I think we’ll stay here. Tell us when you need us.” Eppy notices the awkwardness in the room, squinting at each of us in turn, as though looking harder might force information out of us. He, however, is too busy to wait for his glare to work. He nods his head lightly, before slipping back out behind the door.

I hope and pray that no one brings George up again. Just the thought of him is making me… indecent. I need to be prepared for the practice, and the show. I’d been doing well to hide myself, despite how turned on I feel. And if you saw the size of my… not to brag, but it’s pretty difficult to keep hidden.

Paul’s eyes dart back at me as soon as the door clips shut.

“What?”

“George. You like him.”

“Yes, so what? And John, I’ll fucking kill you later.”

“Be my guest.” John hums. He knows it’s all words, which irritates me.

“You know you can be with a Beta, right? There’s nothing wrong with that. You might even find…”

“Paul,” It’s out there, there’s not taking it back. Confiding in someone, even if one of those who is going to hear everything is a vindictive little dick, might not be so bad. Paul’s good at secrets. “It’s not about the whole Beta thing. I wouldn’t care if he was an Alpha! I just like him as a friend, and it’s probably because I’m on my rut that I want him.”

Paul throws himself back onto the wall, balancing on his ankles. He’s in a mood too. It’s not angry, its oddly frustrated. “Then be alone, ok.”

Paul’s not normally so dismissive.

I want to get out of here. I want to so bad. I consider going to have a smoke, it feels like ages since I last had a cigarette, but I also really want to do _something_ about my rut. Perhaps a little play around in the loo would do me well. I just hope I don’t see George in there.

“I’m going to go to the loo.” I mutter.

“NO!” Paul suddenly jerks forward off the wall, his hand placed forward, up in a stop gesture. I pause, holding the door knob and peering over my shoulder to see him. John is looking at him too.

“What? Can’t a man go and pee?”

His eyes run as though he’s reading something written across my face. He doesn’t reply for way too long, so I turn the knob, giving him one last look, telling him that this is his last chance to give me a reason why not to pee. He stands up properly, hands by his side, as a smirk, as sudden as he’d shouted at me, appears on his lips.

“Yeah,” He sings, “Yeah, you can go. I just wanted to...” He glances at the floor, “… make sure you go to the right one. It’s a little ways down the corridor to your left. It’s the fourth or fifth door with the metal handle.”

Weird, but ok. I slip out, shooting him a confused look before the door blocks my view. I follow his instructions, nipping down the left, looking at the handles on each door, counting them as I pass. He was wrong. It was actually the sixth one at the very end, almost around the corner. I open the door ajar, seeing four cubicles lined up and, opposite, several urinals.

And one of the cubicles is taken. I assume it’s George. Fuck. I can’t do anything if he’s in here. I better check, first.

“George?” My voice echoes around the tiled room. A sound that I hadn’t been aware of upon first walking in stops, the absence obvious. “George?”


	17. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Mclennon chapter again  
> But I think I made John a bit annoyingly whiny.  
> Then again, he strikes me as someone who would think a lot about himself rather than about others.  
> So, maybe this isn't so bad.   
> Eh, as long as you're left with a cliffhanger with the Starrison bit, I don't mind ;)  
> Sorry to whom this may be torturing.

Ew. That’s all I can think at the moment. As soon as I see food, I want to eat. I barely tasted any of the stuff they laid out for us in the dressing room. It was too fast down my throat.

I promised Paul I was over this. I said that I wouldn’t worry about it. But I feel fat. I feel sick when I feel fat. I don’t want to tell Paul. I want to cut away at my stomach and burn the fat. I feel even worse because Paul is going to be mad if I don’t tell him and on the other side, I don’t want to have him trying to sympathise with me, to try and make me feel good. It’s probably going to work, but I hate feeling vulnerable, feeling as though I’m less emotionally mature because I’m having girl troubles, whether he thinks that way or not.

I skulk to the sofa, leaving Ringo on his own to eat food. He doesn’t have an inch of self-consciousness. He couldn’t. Not after accepting that nose of his. After that, how could he look at anything and be disappointed. He’s not overweight, he has bright blue eyes, kissable lips, a cheeky smile, confidence, attitude, style. Oh, and he’s well-endowered, to put it mildly. Don’t ask me how I know, but it’s true. Biggest of us lot.

He’s also a good friend. He’s a fucking catch!

He turns around to me, as he can tell that I’m not happy, and asks if I’m alright. I blow him off, of course. Nothing is that matter. Nothing at all. Nothing a man like Ringo could help me with. Does he even know what self-consciousness is?

“Is it something about George and Paul?”

I hadn’t been looking at him. At the very idea, I whip my head up. “No, why?”

“The way they ran off together. Then you sat down. You’re obviously pissed off.”

That? He thinks I think that? Of course not. It’s laughable. I don’t laugh, though. I feel too bloated to laugh “Oh, no. It’s not them.  They want to have some kind of conspiracy, they can have it. I just feel like shit.”

Paul wouldn’t. He wouldn’t. It doesn’t even weigh on my mind. He hasn’t got eyes for any other guy that’s not me. He told me and I see it. He jokes around, of course, but it’s all in jest. I can dig that. Girls is a different trouble, but guys, not a second’s thought. And, very unlike me, I know I’m difficult, I don’t usual trust people so much, not even Paul in the beginning, I do trust what he tells me.

Then again, looking at the way I’m dealing with this whole ‘fat’ shit, do I trust Paul? I can’t trust him enough to tell him when I’m feeling like shit, because I’m fucking embarrassed.

I try to distract myself. While nothing works, time moves on and Paul walks back in, not looking as though he’d just gone off to fuck George. I don’t think George is in the mood to fuck. He didn’t seem well at all. I half believe that he’s sick, had it not been for Paul being such a shit liar. Or maybe I’m being a bit harsh on him. I am in the mind set to be a little more judging, to myself more than anyone else. It’s not a stretch, though.

Ringo immediately has to ask about George. I snort to myself. Of course, he would. He’s definitely hung up on the boy. Paul, again, sprouts some bullshit about George running off to be sick. I can’t think of another reason why he would do that, however, so I’m inclined to believe him.

I’m always too lazy to draw conclusions that aren’t given to me about passing subjects. I’m not a sheep and I’m not a follower, but I am lazy. I go with my gut instinct, but that’s lazy too. If the shoe fits, it fucking stays on. It has not consequence to me.

When I bother to return to reality after swearing at myself several times over in my head, Ringo has randomly piped up. He’s not usually one to throw around swear words with reckless abandon like I do, so it does make me look up, but I’m not in the mood to hear about his problems right now.

I ask what’s up, in a sarcastic voice, hoping he’ll take the hint.

“I really need a fucking Omega, mate. Really need one.”

Oh, and like I want to hear him go on about how horny he is. If only I felt horny. I don’t feel good enough about my body to want to touch it, or to show it to anyone else. He can go out and find an Omega or any chick to satisfy his urges, he doesn’t have to go on and fucking on about it. Paul talks to him calmly, quietly, hinting at something.

Hinting at George.

He’s not saying it quick enough and Ringo isn’t quick enough to get it, “What about George?” I sneakily cut in, which is met by a low, stern call of my name. I dare not look at Ringo, whose no doubt giving me evil eyes.

That’ll teach you for being so fucking confident in everything.

After a conversation with Paul, Ringo heads off to the toilet. Paul almost stops him, for some reason, but decides against it, with a smile on his face. I don’t like when Paul looks all too proud with himself. Knowing we have some time before the practice, I sigh and stretch my legs out on the sofa.

Paul’s voice drags me away from my chance at sleeping in what will feel like a short time away from the world.

“What’s wrong? You’re being a proper dick right now.”

I used to want to spend every free moment with Paul. He’s starting to lose that appeal, the more he wants to keep me from sleeping.

With my eyes closed, I reply, “What? Was it something I said?”

Paul doesn’t take kindly to my mocking. “John, for fuck sake. I’m trying to help George and Ringo and you seem to be doing everything to stop me.” He’s practically shouting, so I decide to zone out.

One time when I was on my rut, Paul and I were walking in the park. It was a boiling hot day, both of us were drenched in sweat, wearing short sleeved shirts and pairs of American styled jeans. I’d already had Paul before we came out, so I wasn’t desperate to mate again and I wasn’t going to sit inside on a day like that. It may have been several degrees cooler inside than it was outside, but I didn’t want to feel like a chicken cooped up in a cage while the world waited for me to drop out a money-making egg.

We sat in a woodier area, the trees shading us and rustling softly in a hot breeze. Nothing could’ve cooled us down. It certainly was not the ideal weather to be fighting against biological urges, let me tell you, but as I’ve said, I’d already had Paul, so I felt as though going out wouldn’t be so bad.

We were far from Abbey Road. Far from responsibilities. Far from other park goers who’d flocked into the fields where the sun beat down on them directly. Paul and I lay in the overgrown, hydrated grass, which looked very different to the yellowing strands away from the trees. We looked though the branches that hung like a ceiling above us. We saw past the summer green leaves. We gazed at the blue sky, of which we’d rarely catch a glimpse, we live in England after all. There were a few wispy, unthreatening clouds soaring up high.

I looked at Paul and I kissed him on the forehead through his fringe. He looked around us to check that there was no one who would see, before he kissed me back, this time on the lips.

“John!”

“Back!” I say.

“Seriously, you’re not listening?” Paul looks deeply disappointed in me.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feigning sincerity, but it turns into frustration with the next words the spill, uncensored, from my mouth, “I was just remembering a… better time.”

“What?”

“I’m not happy.” It is simple. Three words, yet they taste bitter in my mouth.

I see Paul’s expression become worry, “With me?”

“No!” I hastily reply, “With myself. I know you told me not to worry so much about… stuff, but every time I eat, or put on clothes, or see myself in the newspaper, I wonder what they say about me.” Ew. Fucking ew. Feelings. Talking. I feel dirty will all this honesty. Especially when Paul does the exact look I didn’t want to see. Sympathy. Sympathy in those wide eyes of his, staring square at me.

He comes to perch on the tiny space of sofa next to my legs. Even my legs are fucking fat, my mind laughs. They take up half the fucking space on the sofa.

“I thought…” Paul chuckles with relief, “… that you weren’t happy with me. I’d… I don’t know what I’d do if I wasn’t making you happy, John. As for all this stuff with you feeling bad when you eat and all, it’s not going to go away in one night. And keeping it to yourself and getting angry and making everyone else upset isn’t going to help.”

“Then what will?” I retort. 

Paul continues calmly, “I don’t know. We won’t for a while, I’m sure. But let me deal with this with you, please? Or else I’ll worry that I’m not making you happy.”

I shake my head. It’s all too serious. I have to change the subject. I’ll cross the bridge of getting rid of this problem when I have to face it head on. It usually works.

“Why were you going to stop Ringo going to the loo?” I ask. In all my anger at myself, I’d forgotten to find it strange.

Paul grins, evilly, “It was a bad idea.”

“What are you planning? Please let me in on it. I feel so left out.” I say, putting on the voice of a primary school kid whose friend is always going off with someone else. All that’s missing is the promise to ‘be your best friend’ if he tells me.

He knows he can’t hide it from me much longer, he scrunches up his face, wrinkling his dainty nose and reveals, “I’m going to get Ringo and George together.”

“You fucking married woman!” I exclaim, “Matchmaking. You’re down to matchmaking?”

“Trust me. They both want it, they both need it, and I need them to have each other so that they’re not having to confide in me constantly.”

“What does going to the toilet have to do with it?” I ask.

Paul smiles again. He’s so smug about this, I don’t like it, “Just trust me. Ringo and George are in a… similar situation, and I hope someone is going to get caught in there.”

“Caught doing?”

“Ringo’s on his rut… right?”

What. The. Fuck?

Scheming little bitch of an Omega. I kiss him on the forehead like I did that day in the park.


	18. George

I dart back into the stall a minute after Paul leaves.  

Closing the lid of the loo, I sit on top of it and pull my trousers open, my underwear down. I've needed this all day. It may not be in the familiarity of home, nor even in the warm hotel bed, or least of all in their nicely cleaned and decorated bathroom, but I'm not here for the view. I've taken myself in hand so quick, my head thrown back, my eyes sliding shut, that I really couldn't care less if this were a mud pit behind some bar that had been throwing copious amounts of uneaten food and undrunk drinks in it all night.  

Well that would bother me some. But that is not what this place is like. It's not exactly the worst place to get off, that's all I'm saying.  

The other thing I am kind of conscious of is time. Conscious in the sense that, I know time is moving on for the most part and I am supposed to be somewhere, but everything blurs a few minutes later.  

The way I see it, I've not got much time, but I was already half the way along by the time I actually got to doing anything. 

And, for the first time in a while, I go straight to the little folder in my mind with a huge padlock on the front and the words 'Do Not Use' stamped across the cover. On a smaller sticky label, it reads 'Ringo.' Because he's my friend, because I adore him and respect him, because of all the difficulty in actually being with him, I promised myself I would try not to think of him in times like... these. But today, just because I need to be done as soon as possible.  

The first image that coaxes me on is that of Ringo undressing me. I can only really see his hands, his rings, dancing over the buttons of my shirt, the zipper of my trousers. The cold metal around his fingers runs all up the bare stretches of skin, dipping into my shirt to pull it apart, to unhook it from my shoulders. They then walk up to my neck and wrap around it.  

"Do you want this?" Ringo's voice is engrained in my mind, I can hear anything said in his voice.  

Without hesitation, I eagerly say, "Yes, yes Ringo, mate me. Mate me, please." 

Then, since I've found I have quite the taste for his fingers, my 'mind' Ringo pries my lips open, pushing in his index and middle finger.  

I'm moaning out loud. No one is here and no one could really hear me from outside. By now, however, I couldn't care less if anyone could. 

Suddenly the clothes melt off us both. Ringo's skin is sun kissed, a chain around his neck glinting in the light, much like his bright, blue eyes. Against him, I'm pale and scrawny, my mop top messed all which ways.  

He replaces his fingers with his lips and tongue, while his hand slips down my newly nude body to grip me... 

My hands become Ringo's. Fuck, it's an intoxicating, but frustrating feeling. My hands are so obviously not Ringo's, no matter how they replicate the Ringo in my mind. Ringo's hands are stronger than mine. Mine have to be more precise, while his have to be powerful. I grip myself tighter to try and get the right feel. It's not perfect, but nothing is at the moment.  

Only the image of Ringo, standing above me, the image of a chair substituting for the toilet seat, that's all that is perfect. I spread my legs wider, letting my left hand that has remained pretty much dormant, fall down to my hole. I've soaked almost the whole toilet lid with slick.  

"George?" 

I hush. That sounded like Ringo, but all too real, as though he were standing outside the door. Light bends and is blocked from that trip beneath the door. Someone is in here that sounds a hell of a lot like Ringo. 

I can't answer. What if he asks if I'm ok? What if he tells me that Eppy is looking for me, because the practice has to start? I only just realise how long it's been since Eppy told us practice will be in 10 minutes. It must be way past. I can't go outside like this! I'm also conscious that I'm probably smelling up the place with the smell of heat.  

"George?" It has to be Ringo. Even the steps of his heavy feet sound like him. 

I have no idea what to do at all. My heart stops racing in a nice way, it stops altogether, leaving me to draw in long, quiet breaths as humiliation surges through me.  

"Ringo?" My voice is a tiny yelp, much like the sounds I had been making before he came in. I need him. I want him. 

"Georgie... are you?" He walks towards the door, but stops mid step. _Fuck!_ There's a long silence as Ringo shuffles onto two planted feet. I wonder if he knows, if he can tell. I close my legs, ignoring the loud slap sound they make. "George, you're not an Omega, are you?" 

"What?" I whimper.  

"You know that Alphas can smell an Omega in heat. They have a fucking gorgeous smell." He's sounding gruff, animalistic, turned on. I've not heard him like this before. I must be torturing him. I still can't speak, though. "George, please. Tell me if you're ok in there." 

"I'm... fine." I squeak, then finally let out everything that had been building on my tongue since we started this whole trip, "Yes I'm an Omega and yes, I'm in heat, but please Ringo, leave me alone!" 

I hear him suck in a deep breath. When he speaks again, he sounds like his usual, kind, caring self. Not dominant, not Alpha. Purely Ringo, "Why do you want me to leave you alone, Georgie? I promise I won't do anything to you. We're not mated, we're just mates." 

Oh fuck, I want to cry. This is all very... real. I don't want to ruin our friendship, our brotherly relationship, but I really love him and want him. I want to tell myself it's just the heat talking, but do I really believe that? 

"But... I want you to mate me, Ringo." 

 


	19. Ringo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smut! Roll up and get your Starrison smut.  
> Get it while it's still hot!  
> It'll never not be hot...

What the…?

While it may be all I’ve ever wanted, I have no reply.

Here I am on the wrong side of a toilet cubicle, talking to one of my best mates whom I happen to have a crush on, in the middle of my rut, having just found out that, not only is he an Omega in heat, but he has a crush on me too.

Well, the latter may not be entirely true. Perhaps he doesn’t have a crush on me. It might just be that he wants me to mate him because he’s in heat. He might just take anyone.

“So, you want me to leave you alone?” I repeat, moving slightly away from the intoxicating smell emitting off George. If I take in anymore of that, I might burst through the door and take him amongst the rubble.

No. Caring friend first, hungry Alpha later.

He takes a while to reply, opening and closing his mouth, his breathing audible, even from where I’m standing.

“No… yes?” He mutters.

“You don’t sound very sure.” I feel bad for staying. It’s almost like I’m pestering him until he says yes. I should make an excuse to leave…

“Ritchie, I’m so… I’m really aching.” He whines. I don’t think I’ve heard him sound so out of control before. I always imagined him to be totally cool and collected, even in bed. But heat makes even the strongest of Omegas beg on bended knees for some kind of relief.

“What would you like me to do?”

Another pause means I’m waiting with baited breath, wondering what to do.

Wait. Did Paul set this up? It makes sense. Him and George running off together. He must’ve known that George was in here, doing this… no? It would fit together. Perhaps George told Paul he is an Omega. Paul would help him because they are two in the same, and because Paul and he have been best buddies even longer than Paul and John. If he knew that George was in heat and I was in rut and, maybe about Georges crush on me…

Paul is a scheming little-

The cubicle door clicks open and George pokes his head around. He’s sweating, his hair is a little mussed. His top three shirt buttons are undone, but that’s all I can see. He makes a point of hiding everything else.

“Ringo, would you… come in here?”

I can’t breathe. I don’t feel my own footsteps as I slip through the tiny space he’s left between the door and its frame. This cubicle was not made for two fully grown people. Still, I’ll make it work. I have to. I’m walking on air, drunk in my rut as a squirming Omega is finally, _finally_ waiting to open up to me.

And to make it all perfect, the Omega is George.

His thin, long body bends and leans on the toilet seat, his legs spread as far as they will go. His black trousers are open, boxers pulled down. He’s- and I don’t mean his full body- sits to attention, looking achingly hard. I’m sure I am now in the same state, but I can barely think of myself not now, not with George looking up at me, open eyed and slack mouth. He takes one of my hands singles out two of my fingers, then takes them deep inside his mouth, running his tongue along them until it flicks around one of my rings.

“Georgie…” I moan, “Georgie, I’ve wanted you too. I just wanted you to know that. For ages, I’ve wanted you as my mate, but you… I thought you were a beta and I couldn’t have you.”

He’s staring up at me, watching as I speak. He looks fucking beautiful with that mouth around something of mine. I’ll put that to good use later. Later, first thing’s first, satisfying him.

“What do you want me to do, luv?” I ask, stealing away my fingers, despite him sucking them harder when I try to pull away. A loud, wet sound echoes around us as his lips find nothing but each other to grip hold of.

“Knot me, Richie.” He replies, bluntly.

I chuckle. Well, sure, but I’m going to do it my way. Much to his surprise, I crouch down in front of him, between his legs (I’m not going to kneel on this floor, it’s disgusting) and kiss his clothed thigh.

“Take these off, then.” I tell him, tugging at his slick soaked trousers and underwear. He helps me drag them off completely, before I hang them on the loo roll dispenser. Now he’s free, apart from the shirt. I like the skirt. It makes his pale body look even longer than it already is. I run my hands up the insides of his thighs, eliciting a growl from him. I take him in my hands and rub him hard. Fuck, this is too hot.

“I thought you were going to knot me, Richie.” He whimpers between gasps.

“I can’t believe you,” I laugh, feigning disappointment, “You finally get me and you want to skip straight to the knotting. So impatient. You’re not to say another word, do you understand?”

He goes to speak, opening his mouth, but realises what my order was and nods instead. I stroke his hair with one hand, while stroking him elsewhere with the other. After that, I move my lower hand back to his butt, pushing two fingers inside him with ease. He’s so slick, it’s delicious. He sobs like a puppy when I remove my touch from his member, so I, feeling bad since he has been struggling for what must feel like ages in heat, move my top hand down his neck, following the middle of his chest, over his stomach until it’s wrapped around him again.

I feel over-dressed. Stealing my touch away again, much to the discomfort of my young Omega, I take off my blazer and undo a few more buttons on my shirt. When I regain position, I think George has had enough torture, so I drag his hips forward, unzip my trousers and enter him. He yelps wonderfully, calling my name as I’d always dreamed he would.

That annoying ache that had been pooling below my stomach finally soothes. I bet it’s having the same effect on George. He looks tight like an over-wound clock, but blissful. I kiss him roughly on his lips until he pulls away to gasp. He’s close, we both are, it’s wonderful to feel so close, real groovy.

“George,” I breath, “Georgie…” I don’t know what else I want to say, but something is at the tip of my tongue. I guess I like saying George’s name out loud, to him, rather than in my mind.

We finish together, one after the other in seamless order. It’s seeing him first that sends me over the edge. In climatic ecstasy, I forget not to let my clothes touch the floor, and collapse onto my knees, my chest and head falling into George’s lap. He buries his head in my hair, playing with the baby hairs under my mass of mop top.

“Thank you.” He says, adding, “Alpha.”

I almost come again hearing him call me Alpha, “No problem, Georgie, but I think we need to get back, you know. Clean up and change before Eppy turns up.” I drag myself up, telling the reluctance in my mind that I will have plenty more hug later. I’m not letting George sleep in his own bed tonight… or ever again. Putting myself away and hooking my blazer over my arm, I watch George pull on his neatly folded trousers, all the while a smile unlike any I’ve seen him ever muster before pasted onto his face as though it were permanent. Reasonably presentable, we exit the cubicle, quickly run our hands under the tap, then head for the door. I do not let George leave without giving him another kiss.


	20. Brian Epstein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends.  
> Can I just say, thank you all who read this and commented with such kind words.   
> This is my longest fic and, for the first time, it's finished.   
> I haven't done anything like this before, so thank you so much for all the encouragement and following.   
> I know this sounds mushy, but I'm so proud of myself and so thankful.  
> So... yeah

Today has been… hectic, to put it mildly.

And to make things worse, this concert is taking it’s time to set up. Technicians dart everywhere. Cables overlap and plug into everything on stage. Lights flicker on and off on the command of someone in a studio at the back of the huge room. I have been going from one place to another, well aware that the boys are probably bored out of their minds, causing some havoc either in the dressing room, or they’ve burst out from there to sneak off.

That thought sticks in my mind so long that I make an excuse to go and see them. They can come and practice now, even if everything isn’t quite ready. They may even be able to help setting things up, tell us where they want everything, what feels best for them. That may also be overly optimistic.

I stride through the right wing of the stage to a corridor that runs around the back. Here, a load of rooms wait for me to step into the wrong one, forgetting which is the dressing room. Then, of course, I remember that the main one is opposite the four doors they stuck sheets of paper on, each saying a different Beatles’ name. They are the individual dressing rooms.

I swing open the door to the main dressing room to find the four boys gathered around the sofa in unsettling content. Their gaze turns my way, each smiling as big as the next. I feel as though I’m in a horror movie.

“What are you up to?” I ask without bothering to greet them.

“Oh, nothing dearest Eppy.” John says, sounding evil. The other boys nod. Ringo is standing behind George with one hand on the younger boy’s shoulder. John is lying on the sofa with Paul perched on one of the arms. I wonder if they’ve broken something.

“You all look too suspicious.” I continue, “If there’s anything I have to pay for, or something you’ve all done, spit it out now, please.”

“Oh nothing,” Paul parrots John, “Do we need to come for a practice?”

I’m inclined to say no and interrogate them further, but the room actually looks quite normal and there are no signs that they went anywhere, not to mention how way behind schedule we are.

John gets up first and holds a hand out for Paul, saying, “Come Omega, luv.” I roll my eyes. They do love to rub their happiness in everyone’s faces. They’re not to know that it irritates me, as they wouldn’t know. I’m an Omega who has, so far, not had a proper heat in years. There they are, mated like a married couple, while I sit and watch on.

George is next to move, but he mirrors John’s actions, turning to Ringo, saying, “Come, Alpha.”

They walk on past me while I’m unable to move.

Ringo is George’s alpha? I was not even aware that George was an Omega. The boys are already half way down the hallway. I chase after them, calling, “Boys! Wait. You’re…”

 


End file.
